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NELLO AND PATRASCHE 







JTr^U RIVERSIDE BOOKSHELF' 
--—--*- 


THE 

GOOD DOG BOOK 

ABOUT RAB, PATRASCHE, STICKEEN, 
SCALLY, BARRY, AND OTHER DOGS 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

GUSTAFTENGGREN 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

®be fctoerafoe Cambridge 

1924 









i 


0 

3 



COPYRIGHT, 1909. BY JOHN MUIR 
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY WILFRED THOMASON GRENFELL 
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY IAN HAY BEITH 
COPYRIGHT, I 924 , BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


tETtje JUUcrsi&c |5resisf 

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 


PRINTED IN THE U.S.A, 



(S) 


C1A 808211 


n 1 


CONTENTS 


Rab and his Friends, by Dr. John Brown i 

The Bloodhound, by Bryan Waller Proc¬ 
ter (Barry Cornwall) 28 

A Dog of Flanders, by Louise de la Ram£e 
(Ouida) 31 

Chance, by Henry Herbert Knibbs 99 

Stickeen, by John Muir 103 

Beth Gelert, or The Grave of the Grey¬ 
hound, by William Robert Spencer 139 

Scally : The Story of a Perfect Gentleman, 
by Ian Hay 145 

The Vagabonds, by John Townsend Trow¬ 
bridge 200 

Adrift on an Ice-Pan, by Wilfred Thomason 
Grenfell 205 

Just Our Dog { anonymous ) 240 

Barry, the Dog Hero of the Saint Bernard 
Pass, by Eva March Tappan 243 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Nello and Patrasche Frontispiece 

Rab and the Game Chicken 8 

Stickeen 106 

Sc ally 160 

Adrift on an Ice-Pan 232 


Drawn by Gustaf Tenggren 







* 



J 


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RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 

By 

Dr. John Brown 





I 



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* 


















THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

• • 

• 

RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 
Four-and-thirty years ago, Bob Ainslie and I 
were coming up Infirmary Street from the Edin¬ 
burgh High School, our heads together, and our 
arms intertwisted, as only lovers and boys know 
how, or why. 

When we got to the top of the street, and turned 
north, we espied a crowd at the Tron Church. 
“A dog-fight!” shouted Bob, and was off; and so 
was I, both of us all but praying that it might not 
be over before we got up! And is not this boy- 
nature? and human nature too? and don’t we all 
wish a house on fire not to be out before we see it? 





4 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

Dogs like fighting; old Isaac says they “delight” 
in it, and for the best of all reasons; and boys are 
not cruel because they like to see the fight. They 
see three of the great cardinal virtues of dog or 
man — courage, endurance, and skill — in intense 
action. This is very different from a love of mak¬ 
ing dogs fight, and enjoying, and aggravating, and 
making gain by their pluck. A boy — be he ever 
so fond himself of fighting — if he be a good boy, 
hates and despises all this, but he would have run 
off with Bob and me fast enough: it is a natural, 
and a not wicked interest, that all boys and men 
have in witnessing intense energy in action. 

Does any curious and finely ignorant woman 
wish to know how Bob’s eye at a glance an¬ 
nounced a dog-fight to his brain? He did not, he 
could not see the dogs fighting; it was a flash of 
an inference, a rapid induction. The crowd round 
a couple of dogs fighting is a crowd masculine 
mainly, with an occasional active, compassionate 
woman, fluttering wildly round the outside, and 
using her tongue and her hands freely upon the 
men, as so many “brutes”; it is a crowd annular, 
compact, and mobile; a crowd centripetal, having 
its eyes and its heads all bent downwards and in¬ 
wards, to one common focus. 

Well, Bob and I are up, and find it is not over: 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


5 

a small thoroughbred, white bull terrier, is busy 
throttling a large shepherd’s dog, unaccustomed 
to war, but not to be trifled with. They are hard 
at it; the scientific little fellow doing his work in 
great style, his pastoral enemy fighting wildly, but 
with the sharpest of teeth and a great courage. 
Science and breeding, however, soon had their 
own; the Game Chicken, as the premature Bob 
called him, working his way up, took his final grip 
of poor Yarrow’s throat — and he lay gasping and 
done for. His master, a brown, handsome, big 
young shepherd from Tweedsmuir, would have 
liked to have knocked down any man, would 
“drink up Esil, or eat a crocodile,” for that part, 
if he had a chance: it was no use kicking the little 
dog; that would only make him hold the closer. 
Many were the means shouted out in mouthfuls, 
of the best possible ways of ending it. “Water!” 
but there was none near, and many cried for it 
who might have got it from the well at Black- 
friars Wynd. “Bite the tail!” and a large, vague, 
benevolent, middle-aged man, more desirous than 
wise, with some struggle got the bushy end of Yar¬ 
row's tail into his ample mouth, and bit it with all 
his might. This was more than enough for the 
much-enduring, much-perspiring shepherd, who, 
with a gleam of joy over his broad visage, deliv- 


6 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


ered a terrific facer upon our large, vague, benev¬ 
olent, middle-aged friend — who went down like 
a shot. 

Still the Chicken holds; death not far off. 
“ Snuff! a pinch of snuff!” observed a calm, highly 
dressed young buck, with an eyeglass in his eye. 
“Snuff, indeed!” growled the angry crowd, af¬ 
fronted and glaring. “Snuff! a pinch of snuff!” 
again observed the buck, but with more urgency; 
whereon were produced several open boxes, and 
from a mull which may have been at Culloden, he 
took a pinch, knelt down, and presented it to the 
nose of the Chicken. The laws of physiology and 
of snuff take their course; the Chicken sneezes, 
and Yarrow is free! 

The young pastoral giant stalks off with Yar¬ 
row in his arms — comforting him. 

But the bull terrier’s blood is up, and his soul 
unsatisfied; he grips the first dog he meets, and 
discovering she is not a dog, in Homeric phrase, 
he makes a brief sort of amende , and is off. The 
boys, with Bob and me at their head, are after 
him: down Niddry Street he goes, bent on mis¬ 
chief ; up the Cowgate like an arrow — Bob and I, 
and our small men, panting behind. 

There, under the single arch of the South 
Bridge, is a huge mastiff, sauntering down the 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


7 

middle of the causeway, as if with his hands in his 
pockets: he is old, gray, brindled, as big as a little 
Highland bull, and has the Shakespearean dewlaps 
shaking as he goes. 

The Chicken makes straight at him, and fastens 
on his throat. To our astonishment, the great 
creature does nothing but stand still, hold himself 
up, and roar — yes, roar; a long, serious, remon¬ 
strati ve roar. How is this? Bob and I are up to 
them. He is muzzled! The bailies had proclaimed 
a general muzzling, and his master, studying 
strength and economy mainly, had encompassed 
his huge jaws in a home-made apparatus, con¬ 
structed out of the leather of some ancient breech- 
in . His mouth was open as far as it could; his lips 
curled up in rage — a sort of terrible grin; his 
teeth gleaming, ready, from out the darkness; the 
strap across his mouth tense as a bowstring; his 
whole frame stiff with indignation and surprise; 
his roar asking us all round, “Did you ever see 
the like of this? ” He looked a statue of anger and 
astonishment, done in Aberdeen granite. 

We soon had a crowd: the Chicken held on. “A 
knife!” cried Bob; and a cobbler gave him his 
knife: you know the kind of knife, worn away ob¬ 
liquely to a point, and always keen. I put its edge 
to the tense leather; it ran before it; and then! 


8 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


— one sudden jerk of that enormous head, a sort 
of dirty mist about his mouth, no noise — and the 
bright and fierce little fellow is dropped, limp, and 
dead. A solemn pause: this was more than any of 
us had bargained for. I turned the little fellow 
over, and saw he was quite dead; the mastiff had 
taken him by the small of the back like a rat, and 
broken it. 

He looked down at his victim appeased, 
ashamed, and amazed; snuffed him all over, stared 
at him, and, taking a sudden thought, turned 
round and trotted off. Bob took the dead dog up, 
and said, “John, we’ll bury him after tea.’’ 
“Yes,” said I, and was off after the mastiff. He 
made up the Cowgate at a rapid swing; he had 
forgotten some engagement. He turned up the 
Candlemaker Row, and stopped at the Harrow 
Inn. 

There was a carrier’s cart ready to start, and 
keen, thin, impatient, black-a-vised little man, 
his hand at his gray horse’s head, looking about 
angrily for something. “Rab, ye thief!” said he, 
aiming a kick at my great friend, who drew cring¬ 
ing up, and avoiding the heavy shoe with more 
agility than dignity, and watching his master’s 
eye, slunk dismayed under the cart — his ears 
down, and as much as he had of tail down too. 



RAB AND THE GAME CHICKEN 


















RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 9 

What a man this must be — thought I — to 
whom my tremendous hero turns tail! The carrier 
saw the muzzle hanging, cut and useless, from his 
neck, and I eagerly told him the story, which Bob 
and I always thought, and still think, Homer, or 
King David, or Sir Walter alone were worthy to 
rehearse. The severe little man was mitigated, 
and condescended to say, “Rab, my man, puir 
Rabbie”—whereupon the stump of a tail rose 
up, the ears were cocked, the eyes filled, and were 
comforted; the two friends were reconciled. 
“Hupp!” and a stroke of the whip were given to 
Jess; and off went the three. 

Bob and I buried the Game Chicken that night 
(we had not much of a tea) in the back-green of 
his house in Melville Street, No. 17, with consid¬ 
erable gravity and silence; and being at the time 
in the Iliad, and, like all boys, Trojans, we called 
him Hector, of course. 

Six years have passed — a long time for a boy 
and a dog: Bob Ainslie is off to the wars; I am a 
medical student, and clerk at Minto House Hos¬ 
pital. 

Rab I saw almost every week, on the Wednes¬ 
day, and we had much pleasant intimacy. I found 


10 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

the way to his heart by frequent scratching of his 
huge head, and an occasional bone. When I did 
not notice him, he would plant himself straight 
before me, and stand wagging that bud of a tail, 
and looking up, with his head a little to the one 
side. His master I occasionally saw; he used to 
call me “Maister John,” but was laconic as any 
Spartan. 

One fine October afternoon, I was leaving the 
hospital, when I saw the large gate open, and in 
walked Rab, with that great and easy saunter of 
his. He looked as if taking general possession of 
the place; like the Duke of Wellington entering a 
subdued city, satiated with victory and peace. 
After him came Jess, now white from age, with 
her cart; and in it a woman, carefully wrapped up 
— the carrier leading the horse anxiously, and 
looking back. When he saw me, James (for his 
name was James Noble) made a curt and gro¬ 
tesque “boo,” and said, “Maister John, this is the 
mistress; she’s got a trouble in her breest — some 
kind o’ an income we’re thinking.” 

By this time I saw the woman’s face; she was 
sitting on a sack filled with straw, her husband’s 
plaid round her, and his big-coat with its large 
white metal buttons, over her feet. 

I never saw a more unforgettable face — pale, 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


ii 


serious, lonely ,* delicate, sweet, without being at 
all what we call fine. She looked sixty, and had on 
a mutch, white as snow, with its black ribbon; her 
silvery, smooth hair setting off her dark-gray eyes 
— eyes such as one sees only twice or thrice in a 
lifetime, full of suffering, full also of the overcoming 
of it: her eyebrows black and delicate, and her 
mouth firm, patient, and contented, which few 
mouths ever are. 

As I have said, I never saw a more beautiful 
countenance, or one more subdued to settled quiet. 
“Ailie,” said James, “this is Maister John, the 
young doctor; Rab’s freend, ye ken. We often 
speak aboot you, Doctor/’ She smiled, and made 
a movement, but said nothing; and prepared to 
come down, putting her plaid aside and rising. 
Had Solomon, in all his glory, been handing down 
the Queen of Sheba at his palace gate, he could 
not have done it more daintily, more tenderly, 
more like a gentleman, than did James the How- 
gate carrier, when he lifted down Ailie his wife. 
The contrast of his small, swarthy, weather¬ 
beaten, keen, worldly face to hers — pale, sub¬ 
dued, and beautiful — was something wonderful. 
Rab looked on concerned and puzzled, but ready 

1 It is not easy giving this look by one word; it was expressive of 
her being so much of her life alone. 


12 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


for anything that might turn up — were it to 
strangle the nurse, the porter, or even me. Ailie 
and he seemed great friends. 

“As I was sayin’ she's got a kind o’ trouble in 
her breest, Doctor; wull ye tak’ a look at it?” We 
walked into the consulting-room, all four; Rab 
grim and comic, willing to be happy and confi¬ 
dential if cause could be shown, willing also to be 
the reverse, on the same terms. Ailie sat down, 
undid her open gown and her lawn handkerchief 
round her neck, and without a word, showed me 
her right breast. I looked at and examined it care¬ 
fully — she and James watching me, and Rab 
eyeing all three. What could I say ? — there it was, 
that had once been so soft, so shapely, so white, 
so gracious and bountiful, so “full of all blessed 
conditions” — hard as a stone, a center of horrid 
pain, making that pale face, with its gray, lucid, 
reasonable eyes, and its sweet, resolved mouth, 
express the full measure of suffering overcome. 
Why was that gentle, modest, sweet woman, 
clean and loveable, condemned by God to bear 
such a burden? 

I got her away to bed. 

“May Rab and me bide?” said James. 

“ You may; and Rab, if he will behave himself.” 

“I’se warrant he’s do that, Doctor.” And in 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 13 

slank the faithful beast. I wish you could have 
seen him. There are no such dogs now. He be¬ 
longed to a lost tribe. As I have said, he was 
brindled and gray like Rubislaw granite; his hair 
short, hard, an ^ close, like a lion’s; his body thick¬ 
set, like a little bull — a sort of compressed Her¬ 
cules of a dog. He must have been ninety pounds’ 
weight, at the least; he had a large blunt head; 
his muzzle black as night, his mouth blacker 
than any night, a tooth or two — being all he had 
— gleaming out of his jaws of darkness. His head 
was scarred with the records of old wounds, a sort 
of series of fields of battle all over it; one eye out, 
one ear cropped as close as was Archbishop Leigh¬ 
ton’s father’s; the remaining eye had the power of 
two; and above it, and in constant communication 
with it, was a tattered rag of an ear, which was 
forever unfurling itself, like an old flag; and then 
that bud of a tail, about one inch long, if it could 
in any sense be said to be long, being as broad 
as long — the mobility, the instantaneousness of 
that bud were very funny and surprising, and its 
expressive twinklings and winkings, the intercom¬ 
munications between the eye, the ear, and it, were 
of the oddest and swiftest. 

Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great 
size; and having fought his way all along the road 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


14 

to absolute supremacy, he was as mighty in his 
own line as Julius Caesar or the Duke of Welling¬ 
ton, and had the gravity 1 of all great fighters. 

You must have often observed the likeness of 
certain men to certain animals, and of certain 
dogs to men. Now, I never looked at Rab without 
thinking of the great Baptist preacher, Andrew 
Fuller . 2 The same large, heavy, menacing, com¬ 
bative, somber, honest countenance, the same 
deep inevitable eye, the same look — as of thun¬ 
der asleep, but ready — neither a dog nor a man to 
be trifled with. 

Next day, my master, the surgeon, examined 
Ailie. There was no doubt it must kill her, and 
soon. It could be removed — it might never re¬ 
turn — it would give her speedy relief — she 
should have it done. 

1 A Highland gamekeeper, when asked why a certain terrier, of 
singular pluck, was so much more solemn than the other dogs, 
said, “Oh, Sir, life’s full o’ sairiousness to him — he just never can 
get enuff o’ fechtin’.” 

2 Fuller was, in early life, when a farmer lad at Soham, famous 
as a boxer; not quarrelsome, but not without “the stern delight” 
a man of strength and courage feels in their exercise. Dr. Charles 
Stewart, of Dunearn, whose rare gifts and graces as a physician, a 
divine, a scholar, and a gentleman, live only in the memory of 
those few who knew and survive him, liked to tell how Mr. Fuller 
used to say that when he was in the pulpit, and saw a buirdly man 
come along the passage, he would instinctively draw himself up, 
measure his imaginary antagonist, and forecast how he would deal 
with him, his hands meanwhile condensing into fists, and tending 
to “square.” He must have been a hard hitter if he boxed as he 
preached — what “The Fancy” would call “an ugly customer.” 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


15 

She curtsied, looked at James, and said, 
“When?” 

“To-morrow,” said the kind surgeon — a man 
of few words. 

She and James and Rab and I retired. I noticed 
that he and she spoke little, but seemed to anti¬ 
cipate everything in each other. The following 
day, at noon, the students came in, hurrying up 
the great stair. At the first landing-place, on a 
small well-known blackboard, was a bit of paper 
fastened by wafers and many remains of old 
wafers beside it. On the paper were the words — 
“An operation to-day. J. B. Clerk.” 

Up ran the youths, eager to secure good places; 
in they crowded, full of interest and talk. “What’s 
the case?” “Which side is it?” 

Don’t think them heartless; they are neither 
better nor worse than you or I; they get over their 
professional horrors, and into their proper work— 
and in them pity — as an emotion , ending in itself 
or at best in tears and a long-drawn breath — 
lessens, while pity as a motive is quickened, and 
gains power and purpose. It is well for poor hu¬ 
man nature that it is so. 

The operating theater is crowded; much talk 
and fun, and all the cordiality and stir of youth. 
The surgeon with his staff of assistants is there. 


16 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

In comes Ailie: one look at her quiets and abates 
the eager students. That beautiful old woman is 
too much for them; they sit down, and are dumb, 
and gaze at her. These rough boys feel the power 
of her presence. She walks in quickly, but with¬ 
out haste; dressed in her mutch, her neckerchief, 
her white dimity short gown, her black bombazine 
petticoat, showing her white worsted stockings 
and her carpet-shoes. Behind her was James with 
Rab. James sat down in the distance, and took 
that huge and noble head between his knees. Rab 
looked perplexed and dangerous; forever cocking 
his ear and dropping it as fast. 

Ailie stepped up on a seat, and laid herself on 
the table, as her friend the surgeon told her; ar¬ 
ranged herself, gave a rapid look at James, shut 
her eyes, rested herself on me, and took my hand. 
The operation was at once begun; it was neces¬ 
sarily slow; and chloroform — one of God’s best 
gifts to his suffering children — was then un¬ 
known. The surgeon did his work. The pale face 
showed its pain, but was still and silent. Rab’s 
soul was working within him; he saw that some¬ 
thing strange was going on — blood flowing from 
his mistress, and she suffering; his ragged ear was 
up, and importunate; he growled and gave now 
and then a sharp, impatient yelp; he would have 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


17 

liked to have done something to that man. But 
James had him firm, and gave him a glower from 
time to time, and an intimation of a possible kick; 
— all the better for James, it kept his eye and his 
mind off Ailie. 

It is over: she is dressed, steps gently and de¬ 
cently down from the table, looks for James; 
then, turning to the surgeon and the students, she 
curtsies — and in a low, clear voice, begs their 
pardon if she has behaved ill. The students — all 
of us — wept like children; the surgeon happed 
her up carefully — and, resting on James and me, 
Ailie went to her room, Rab following. We put her 
to bed. James took off his heavy shoes, crammed 
with tackets, heel-capt and toe-capt, and put 
them carefully under the table, saying, “Maister 
John, I’m for nane o’ yer strynge nurse bodies for 
Ailie. I’ll be her nurse, and Til gang aboot on my 
stockin’ soles as canny as pussy.” And so he did; 
and handy and clever and swift and tender as any 
woman was that horny-handed, snell, peremptory 
little man. Everything she got he gave her: he sel¬ 
dom slept; and often I saw his small shrewd eyes, 
out of the darkness, fixed on her. As before, they 
spoke little. 

Rab behaved well, never moving, showing us 
how meek and gentle he could be, and occasionally, 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


18 

in his sleep, letting us know that he was demolish¬ 
ing some adversary. He took a walk with me every 
day, generally to the Candlemaker Row; but he 
was somber and mild; declined doing battle, 
though some fit cases offered, and indeed sub¬ 
mitted to sundry indignities; and was always very 
ready to turn, and came faster back, and trotted 
up the stair with much lightness, and went straight 
to that door. 

Jess, the mare, had been sent, with her weather¬ 
worn cart, to Howgate, and had doubtless her own 
dim and placid meditations and confusions, on the 
absence of her master and Rab, and her unnatural 
freedom from the road and her cart. 

For some days Ailie did well. The wound healed 
“by the first intention”; for, as James said, “Our 
Ailie’s skin’s ower clean to beil.” The students 
came in quiet and anxious, and surrounded her 
bed. She said she liked to see their young, honest 
faces. The surgeon dressed her, and spoke to her 
in his own short, kind way, pitying her through 
his eyes, Rab and James outside the circle — Rab 
being now reconciled, and even cordial, and 
having made up his mind that as yet nobody re¬ 
quired worrying, but, as you may suppose, semper 
paratus. 

So far well: but, four days after the operation, 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


19 

my patient had a sudden and long shivering, a 
“groosiny’ as she called it. I saw her soon after; 
her eyes were too bright, her cheek colored; she 
was restless, and ashamed of being so; the balance 
was lost; mischief had begun. On looking at the 
w^ound, a blush of red told the secret: her pulse was 
rapid, her breathing anxious and quick, she wasn’t 
herself, as she said, and was vexed at her restless¬ 
ness. We tried what we could; James did every¬ 
thing, was everywhere; never in the way, never 
out of it; Rab subsided under the table into a dark 
place, and was motionless, all but his eye, which 
followed every one. Ailie got worse; began to 
grander in her mind, gently; was more demonstra¬ 
tive in her ways to James, rapid in her questions, 
and sharp at times. He was vexed, and said, “She 
was never that way afore; no, never.” For a time 
she knew her head was wrong, and was always 
asking our pardon — the dear, gentle old woman: 
then delirium set in strong, without pause. Her 
brain gave way, and then came that terrible 
spectacle — 

“The intellectual power, through words and things, 
Went sounding on its dim and perilous way”; 

she sang bits of old songs and Psalms, stopping 
suddenly, mingling the Psalms of David and the 
diviner words of his Son and Lord, with homely 
odds and ends and scraps of ballads. 


20 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


Nothing more touching, or in a sense more 
strangely beautiful, did I ever witness. Her tremu¬ 
lous, rapid, affectionate, eager, Scotch voice — the 
swift, aimless, bewildered mind, the baffled utter¬ 
ance, the bright and perilous eye; some wild words, 
some household cares, something for James, the 
names of the dead, Rab called rapidly and in a 
“fremyt” voice, and he starting up surprised, and 
slinking off as if he were to blame somehow, or had 
been dreaming he heard; many eager questions and 
beseechings which James and I could make nothing 
of, and on which she seemed to set her all, and 
then sink back ununderstood. It was very sad, but 
better than many things that are not called sad. 
James hovered about, put out and miserable, but 
active and exact as ever; read to her, when there 
was a lull, short bits from the Psalms, prose and 
metre, chanting the latter in his own rude and 
serious way, showing great knowledge of the fit 
words, bearing up like a man, and doating over her 
as his ‘‘ain Ailie. ’ 9 11 Ailie, ma woman!” “Ma ain 
bonnie wee dawtie!” 

The end was drawing on: the golden bowl was 
breaking; the silver cord was fast being loosed — 
that animula blandula , vagula, hospes, comesque , 
was about to flee. The body and the soul — com¬ 
panions for sixty years — were being sundered, 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


21 


and taking leave. She was walking alone, through 
the valley of that shadow, into which one day we 
must all enter — and yet she was not alone, for we 
know whose rod and staff were comforting her. 

One night she had fallen quiet, and, as we hoped, 
asleep; her eyes were shut. We put down the gas, 
and sat watching her. Suddenly she sat up in bed, 
and, taking a bedgown which was lying on it rolled 
up, she held it eagerly to her breast — to the right 
side. We could see her eyes bright with a surpris¬ 
ing tenderness and joy, bending over this bundle 
of clothes. She held it as a woman holds her suck¬ 
ing child; opening out her nightgown impatiently, 
and holding it close, and brooding over it, and 
murmuring foolish little words, as over one whom 
his mother comforteth, and who sucks and is 
satisfied. It was pitiful and strange to see her 
wasted, dying look, keen and yet vague — her 
immense love. 

“Preserve me!” groaned James, giving way. 
And then she rocked back and forward, as if to 
make it sleep, hushing it, and wasting on it her 
infinite fondness. “Wae’s me, Doctor; I declare 
she’s thinkin’ it’s that bairn.” 

“What bairn?” 

“The only bairn we ever had; our wee Mysie, 
and she’s in the Kingdom, forty years and mair.” 


22 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


It was plainly true: the pain in the breast, telling 
its urgent story to a bewildered, ruined brain, was 
misread and mistaken; it suggested to her the un¬ 
easiness of a breast full of milk, and then the child; 
and so again once more they were together, and 
she had her ain wee Mysie in her bosom. 

This was the close. She sank rapidly: the delir¬ 
ium left her; but, as she whispered, she was “clean 
silly”; it was the lightening before the final dark¬ 
ness. After having for some time lain still — her 
eyes shut, she said “James!” He came close to 
her, and, lifting up her calm, clear, beautiful eyes, 
she gave him a long look, turned to me kindly but 
shortly, looked for Rab, but could not see him, 
then turned to her husband again, as if she would 
never leave off looking, shut her eyes, and com¬ 
posed herself. She lay for some time breathing 
quick, and passed away so gently that, when we 
thought she was gone, Janies, in his old-fashioned 
way, held the mirror to her face. After a long pause, 
one small spot of dimness was breathed out; it 
vanished away, and never returned, leaving the 
blank clear darkness of the mirror without a stain. 
“What is our life? it is even a vapor, which ap- 
peareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.” 

Rab all this time had been full awake and 
motionless; he came forward beside us: Ailie’s 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


23 

hand, which James had held, was hanging down; 
it was soaked with his tears; Rab licked it all over 
carefully, looked at her, and returned to his place 
under the table. 

James and I sat, I don't know’ how long, but 
for some time — saying nothing: he started up 
abruptly, and with some noise went to the table, 
and, putting his right fore and middle fingers each 
into a shoe, pulled them out, and put them on, 
breaking one of the leather latchets, and mutter¬ 
ing in anger, “I never did the like o’ that afore!" 

I believe he never did; nor after either. “ Rab! ” 
he said roughly, and pointing with his thumb to 
the bottom of the bed. Rab leapt up, and settled 
himself; his head and eye to the dead face. ‘‘ Maister 
John, ye'll wait for me," said the carrier; and dis¬ 
appeared in the darkness, thundering downstairs 
in his heavy shoes. I ran to a front window; there 
he was, already round the house, and out at the 
gate, fleeing like a shadow. 

I was afraid about him, and yet not afraid; so 
I sat down beside Rab, and, being w’earied, fell 
asleep. I awoke from a sudden noise outside. It 
was November, and there had been a heavy fall of 
snow. Rab w*as in statu quo; he heard the noise too, 
and plainly knew it, but never moved. I looked 
out; and there, at the gate, in the dim morning — 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


24 

for the sun was not up — was Jess and the cart — 
a cloud of steam rising from the old mare. I did 
not see James; he was already at the door, and 
came up the stairs, and met me. It was less than 
three hours since he left, and he must have posted 
out — who knows how? — to Howgate, full nine 
miles off; yoked Jess, and driven her astonished 
into town. He had an armful of blankets, and was 
streaming with perspiration. He nodded to me, 
spread out on the floor two pairs of clean old 
blankets having at their corners, “A. G., 1794/’ * n 
large letters in red worsted. These were the initials 
of Alison Graeme, and James may have looked in 
at her from without — himself unseen but not un¬ 
thought of — when he was “ wat, wat, and weary,” 
and, after having walked many a mile over the 
hills, may have seen her sitting, while “a’ the lave 
were sleepin’”; and by the firelight working her 
name on the blankets, for her ain James’s bed. 

He motioned Rab down, and, taking his wife 
in his arms, laid her in the blankets, and happed 
her carefully and firmly up, leaving the face un¬ 
covered; and then lifting her, he nodded again 
sharply to me, and with a resolved but utterly 
miserable face, strode along the passage, and 
downstairs, followed by Rab. I followed with a 
light; but he didn’t need it. I went out, holding 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 


25 

stupidly the candle in my hand in the calm frosty 
air; we were soon at the gate. I could have helped 
him, but I saw he was not to be meddled with, and 
he was strong, and did not need it. He laid her 
down as tenderly, as safely, as he had lifted her out 
ten days before — as tenderly as when he had her 
first in his arms when she was only “A.G.”— 
sorted her, leaving that beautiful sealed face open 
to the heavens; and then, taking Jess by the head, 
he moved away. He did not notice me, neither did 
Rab, who presided behind the cart. 

I stood till they passed through the long shadow 
of the College, and turned up Nicolson Street. I 
heard the solitary cart sound through the streets, 
and die away and come again; and I returned, 
thinking of that company going up Libberton 
Brae, then along Roslin Muir, the morning light 
touching the Pentlands and making them like on- 
looking ghosts, then down the hill through Auchin- 
dinny woods, past “haunted Woodhouselee”; and 
as daybreak came sweeping up the bleak Lammer- 
muirs, and fell on his own door, the company would 
stop, and James would take the key, and lift Ailie 
up again, laying her on her own bed, and, having 
put Jess up, would return with Rab and shut the 
door. 

James buried his wife, with his neighbors mourn- 


26 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


ing, Rab inspecting the solemnity from a distance. 
It was snow, and that black ragged hole would 
look strange in the midst of the swelling spotless 
cushion of white. James looked after everything; 
then rather suddenly fell ill, and took to bed; was 
insensible when the doctor came, and soon died. A 
sort of low fever was prevailing in the village, and 
his want of sleep, his exhaustion, and his misery 
made him apt to take it. The grave was not diffi¬ 
cult to reopen. A fresh fall of snow had again made 
all things white and smooth; Rab once more looked 
on, and slunk home to the stable. 

And what of Rab? I asked for him next week, of 
the new carrier who got the good-will of James’s 
business, and was now master of Jess and her cart. 
“How’s Rab?” He put me off, and said rather 
rudely, “What’s your business wi’ the dowg?” I 
was not to be so put off. “Where’s Rab?” He, 
getting confused and red, and intermeddling with 
his hair, said, “’Deed, sir, Rab’s deid.” “Dead! 
what did he die of?” “ Weel, sir,” said he, getting 
redder, “he didna exactly dee; he was killed. I had 
to brain him wi’ a rack-pin; there was nae doin’ 
wi’ him. He lay in the treviss wi’ the mear, and 
wadna come oot. I tempit him wi’ kail and meat, 
but he wad tak naething, and keepit me frae f cedin' 


RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 27 

the beast, and he was aye gur gurrin’, and grup 
gruppin’ me by the legs. I was laith to make awa 
wi’ the auld dowg, his like was na atween this and 
Thornhill — but, ’deed, sir, I could do naething 
else.” 

I believed him. Fit end for Rab, quick and 
complete. His teeth and his friends gone, why 
should he keep the peace, and be civil? 


THE BLOODHOUND 


Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger’s 
floor! 

Old friend — we must wander this world once 
more! 

For no one now liveth to welcome us back: 

So, come! let us speed on our fated track. 

What matter the region — what matter the 
weather, 

So you and I travel, till death, together? 

And in death? — why, e’en there I may still be 
found 

By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound. 

We’ve traversed. the desert, we’ve traversed the 
sea, 

And we’ve trod on the heights where the eagles be; 

Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo; 

(How thou pulledst down the deer in those skies of 
blue!) 

No joy did divide us; no peril could part 

The man from his friend of the noble heart; 

Aye, his friend: for where, where shall there ever 
be found 

A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound? 


THE BLOODHOUND 


29 

What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day 
When I routed the wolves, like a stag at bay? 
When downward they galloped to where we stood, 
Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine 
wood? 

Dost remember their howlings? their horrible 
speed ? 

God, God, how I prayed for a friend in need! 
And — he came! Ah, ’twas then, my dear Herod, 
I found 

That the best of all friends was my bold blood¬ 
hound. 

Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound 
Must forever be lost in the worthless ground: 
Yet ‘ * Courage ” — 1 ‘ Fidelity ” — “ Love ’ ’ (they 
say) 

Bear man , as on wings, to his skies away. 

Well, Herod, go tell them whatever may be 
I’ll hope I may ever be found by thee. 

If in sleep — in sleep; if in skies around, 

Mayst thou follow e’en thither, my dear blood¬ 
hound ! 

Bryan Waller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall) 



A DOG OF FLANDERS 

By 

Louise de la Ram£e 
(Ouida) 







o 



A DOG OF FLANDERS 

I 

Nello and Patrasche were left all alone in the 
world. 

They were friends in a friendship closer than 
brotherhood. Nello was a little Ardennois — Pat¬ 
rasche was a big Fleming. They were both of the 
same age by length of years, yet one was still 
young, and the other was already old. They had 
dwelt together almost all their days; both were 
orphaned and destitute, and owed their lives to the 
same hand. It had been the beginning of the tie 
between them, their first bond of sympathy; and 
it had strengthened day by day, and had grown 
with their growth, firm and indissoluble, until they 
loved one another very greatly. 

Their home was a little hut on the edge of a little 







THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


34 

village — a Flemish village a league from Ant¬ 
werp, set amidst flat breadths of pasture and corn- 
lands, with long lines of poplars and of alders bend¬ 
ing in the breeze on the edge of the great canal 
which ran through it. It had about a score of 
houses and homesteads, with shutters of bright 
green or sky-blue, and roofs rose-red or black and 
white, and walls whitewashed until they shone 
in the sun like snow. In the center of the village 
stood a windmill, placed on a little moss-grown 
slope; it was a landmark to all the level country 
round. It had once been painted scarlet, sails and 
all, but that had been in its infancy, half a century 
or more earlier, when it had ground wheat for the 
soldiers of Napoleon; and it was now a ruddy brown, 
tanned by wind and weather. It went queerly by 
fits and starts, as though rheumatic and stiff in the 
joints from age, but it served the whole neighbor¬ 
hood, which would have thought it almost as 
impious to carry grain elsewhere, as to attend any 
other religious service than the mass that was per¬ 
formed at the altar of the little old gray church, 
with its conical steeple, which stood opposite to it, 
and whose single bell rang morning, noon, and 
night with that strange, subdued, hollow sadness 
which every bell that hangs in the Low Countries 
seems to gain as an integral part of its melody. 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 


35 

Within sound of the little melancholy clock, al¬ 
most from their birth upward, they had dwelt to¬ 
gether, Nello and Patrasche, in the little hut on 
the edge of the village, with the cathedral spire of 
Antwerp rising in the northeast, beyond the great 
green plain of seeding grass and spreading corn 
that stretched away from them like a tideless, 
changeless sea. It was the hut of a very old man, 
of a very poor man — of old Jehan Daas, who in 
his time had been a soldier, and who remembered 
the wars that had trampled the country as oxen 
tread down the furrows, and who had brought 
from his service nothing except a wound, which 
had made him a cripple. 

When old Jehan Daas had reached his full eighty, 
his daughter had died in the Ardennes, hard by 
Stavelot, and had left him in legacy her two-year- 
old son. The old man could ill contrive to support 
himself, but he took up the additional burden un¬ 
complainingly, and it soon became welcome and 
precious to him. Little Nello — which was but a 
pet diminutive for Nicolas — throve with him, and 
the old man and the little child lived in the poor 
little hut contentedly. 

It was a very humble little mud-hut indeed, but 
it was clean and white as a sea-shell, and stood in 
a small plot of garden-ground that yielded beans 


36 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

and herbs and pumpkins. They were very poor, 
terribly poor — many a day they had nothing at 
all to eat. They never by any chance had enough; 
to have had enough to eat would have been to 
have reached paradise at once. But the old man 
was very gentle and good to the boy, and the boy 
was a beautiful, innocent, truthful, tender-natured 
creature; and they were happy on a crust and a 
few leaves of cabbage, and asked no more of earth 
or Heaven; save, indeed, that Patrasche should be 
always with them, since without Patrasche where 
would they have been? 

For Patrasche was their alpha and omega; their 
treasury and granary; their store of gold and wand 
of wealth; their bread-winner and minister; their 
only friend and comforter. Patrasche dead or gone 
from them, they must have laid themselves down 
and died likewise. Patrasche was body, brains, 
hands, head, and feet to both of them: Patrasche 
was their very life, their very soul. For Jehan 
Daas was old and a cripple, and Nello was but a 
child; and Patrasche was their dog. 

A dog of Flanders — yellow of hide, large of 
head and limb, with wolf-like ears that stood erect, 
and legs bowed and feet widened in the muscu¬ 
lar development wrought in his breed by many 
generations of hard service. Patrasche came of a 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 


37 

race which had toiled hard and cruelly from sire to 
son in Flanders many a century — slaves of slaves, 
dogs of the people, beasts of the shafts and the 
harness, creatures that lived straining their sinews 
in the gall of the cart, and died breaking their 
hearts on the flints of the streets. 

Patrasche had been born of parents who had la¬ 
bored hard all their days over the sharp-set stones 
of the various cities and the long, shadowless, 
weary roads of the two Flanders and of Brabant. 
He had been born to no other heritage than those 
of pain and of toil. He had been fed on curses and 
baptized with blows. Why not? It was a civilized 
country, and Patrasche was but a dog. Before he 
was fully grown, he had known the bitter gall of 
the cart and the collar. Before he had entered his 
thirteenth month, he had become the property of 
a hardware-dealer, who was accustomed to wander 
over the land north and south, from the blue sea to 
the green mountains. They sold him for a small 
price, because he was so young. 

This man was a drunkard and a brute. The life 
of Patrasche was a life of hell. To deal the tortures 
of hell on the animal creation is a way which too 
many people have of showing their belief in it. His 
purchaser was a sullen, ill-living, brutal Braban- 
tois, who heaped his cart full with pots and pans 


38 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

and flagons and buckets, and other wares of 
crockery and brass and tin, and left Patrasche to 
draw the load as best he might, whilst he himself 
lounged idly by the side in fat and sluggish ease, 
smoking his black pipe and stopping at every 
wineshop or cafe on the road. 

Happily for Patrasche — or unhappily — he 
was very strong: he came of an iron race, long 
born and bred to such cruel travail; so that he 
did not die, but managed to drag on a wretched 
.existence under the brutal burdens, the scarify¬ 
ing lashes, the hunger, the thirst, the blows, the 
curses, and the exhaustion which are the only 
wages with which the Flemings repay the most 
patient and laborious of all their four-footed vic¬ 
tims. One day, after two years of this long and 
deadly agony, Patrasche was going on as usual 
along one of the straight, dusty, unlovely roads 
that lead to the city of Rubens. It was full mid¬ 
summer, and very warm. His cart was very 
heavy, piled high with goods in metal and in 
earthenware. His owner sauntered on without 
noticing him otherwise than by the crack of the 
whip as it curled round his quivering loins. The 
Brabantois had paused to drink beer himself at 
every wayside house, but he had forbidden Pat¬ 
rasche to stop a moment for a draught from 


39 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 

the canal. Going along thus, in the full sun, on 
a scorching highway, having eaten nothing for 
twenty-four hours, and, which was far worse to 
him, not having tasted water for nearly twelve, 
being blind with dust, sore with blows, and stupe¬ 
fied with the merciless weight which dragged upon 
his loins, Patrasche, for once, staggered and 
foamed a little at the mouth, and fell 

He fell in the middle of the white, dusty road, 
in the full glare of the sun: he was sick unto death, 
and motionless. His master gave him the only 
medicine in his pharmacy — kicks and oaths and 
blows with a cudgel of oak, which had been often 
the only food and drink, the only wage and re¬ 
ward, ever offered to him. But Patrasche was 
beyond the reach of any torture or of any curses. 
Patrasche lay, dead to all appearances, down in 
the white powder of the summer dust. After a 
while, finding it useless to assail his ribs with 
punishment and his ears with maledictions, the 
Brabantois — deeming life gone in him, or going 
so nearly that his carcass was forever useless, un¬ 
less indeed some one should strip it of the skin for 
gloves — cursed him fiercely in farewell, struck 
off the leathern bands of the harness, kicked his 
body heavily aside into the grass, and, groaning 
and muttering in savage wrath, pushed the cart 


4 o THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

lazily along the road up hill, and left the dying dog 
there for the ants to sting and for the crows to 
pick. 

It was the last day before Kermesse away at 
Louvain, and the Barbantois was in haste to 
reach the fair and get a good place for his truck of 
brass wares. He was in fierce wrath, because Pat- 
rasche had been a strong and much-enduring an¬ 
imal, and because he himself had now the hard 
task of pushing his charette all the way to Louvain. 
But to stay to look afterPatrasche never entered 
his thoughts: the beast was dying and useless, and 
he would steal, to replace him, the first large dog 
that he found wandering alone out of sight of its 
master. Patrasche had cost him nothing, or next 
to nothing, and for two long, cruel years he had 
made him toil ceaselessly in his service from sun¬ 
rise to sunset, through summer and winter, in fair 
weather and foul. 

He had got a fair use and a good profit out of 
Patrasche: being human, he was wise, and left the 
dog to draw his last breath alone in the ditch, and 
have his bloodshot eyes plucked out as they might 
be by the birds, whilst he himself went on his way 
to beg and to steal, to eat and to drink, to dance 
and to sing, in the mirth at Louvain. A dying dog, 
a dog of the cart — why should he waste hours 


A DOG OF FLANDER$ 41 

over its agonies at peril of losing a handful of cop¬ 
per coins, at peril of a shout of laughter? 

Patrasche lay there, flung in the grass-green 
ditch. It was a busy road that day, and hundreds 
of people, on foot and on mules, in wagons or in 
carts, went by, tramping quickly and joyously 
on to Louvain. Some saw him, most did not even 
look: all passed on. A dead dog more or less — it 
was nothing in Brabant: it would be nothing any¬ 
where in the world. 

After a time, amongst the holiday-makers, 
there came a little old man who was bent and 
lame, and very feeble. He was in no guise for 
feasting: he was very poorly and miserably clad, 
and he dragged his silent way slowly through the 
dust amongst the pleasure-seekers. He looked at 
Patrasche, paused, wondered, turned aside, then 
kneeled down in the rank grass and weeds of the 
ditch, and surveyed the dog with kindly eyes of 
pity. There was with him a little rosy, fair-haired, 
dark-eyed child of a few years old, who pattered 
in amidst the bushes, that were for him breast- 
high, and stood gazing with a pretty seriousness 
upon the poor, great, quiet beast. 

Thus it was that these two first met — the 
little Nello and the big Patrasche. 


II 

The upshot of that day was, that old Jehan Daas, 
with much laborious effort, drew the sufferer 
homeward to his own little hut, which was a 
stone’s-throw off amidst the fields, and there 
tended him with so much care that the sickness, 
which had been a brain-seizure, brought on by 
heat and thirst and exhaustion, with time and 
shade and rest passed away, and health and 
strength returned, and Patrasche staggered up 
again upon his four stout, tawny legs. 

Now for many weeks he had been useless, 
powerless, sore, near to death; but all this time he 
had heard no rough word, had felt no harsh touch, 
but only the pitying murmurs of the little child’s 
voice and the soothing caress of the old man’s 
hand. 

In his sickness they two had grown to care for 
him, this lonely old man and the little happy child. 
He had a corner of the hut, with a heap of dry 
grass for his bed; and they had learned to listen 
eagerly for his breathing in the dark night, to tell 
them that he lived; and when he first was well 
enough to essay a loud, hollow, broken bay, they 
laughed aloud, and almost wept together for joy 
at such a sign of his sure restoration; and little 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 43 

Nello, in delighted glee, hung round his rugged 
neck with chains of marguerites, and kissed him 
with fresh and ruddy lips. 

So then, when Patrasche arose, himself again, 
strong, big, gaunt, powerful, his great wistful eyes 
had a gentle astonishment in them that there were 
no curses to rouse him and no blows to drive him; 
and his heart awakened to a mighty love, which 
never wavered once in its fidelity whilst life abode 
with him. 

But Patrasche, being a dog, was grateful. Pat¬ 
rasche lay pondering long with grave, tender, 
musing brown eyes, watching the movements of 
his friends. 

Now, the old soldier, Jehan Daas, could do 
nothing for his living but limp about a little with a 
small cart, with which he carried daily the milk- 
cans of those happier neighbors who owned cattle 
away into the town of Antwerp. The villagers 
gave him the employment a little out of charity — 
more because it suited them well to send their 
milk into the town by so honest a carrier, and 
bide at home themselves to look after their gar¬ 
dens, their cows, their poultry, or their little fields. 
But it was becoming hard work for the old man. 
He was eighty-three, and Antwerp was a good 
league off, or more. 


44 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


Patrasche watched the milk-cans come and go 
that one day when he had got well and was lying 
in the sun with the wreath of marguerites round 
his tawny neck. 

The next morning, Patrasche, before the old 
man had touched the cart, arose and walked to it 
and placed himself betwixt its handles, and testi¬ 
fied as plainly as dumb show could do his desire 
and his ability to work in return for the bread of 
charity that he had eaten. Jehan Daas resisted 
long, for the old man was one of those who thought 
it a foul shame to bind dogs to labor for which 
Nature never formed them. But Patrasche would 
not be gainsaid: finding they did not harness 
him, he tried to draw the cart onward with his 
teeth. 

At length Jehan Daas gave way, vanquished by 
the persistence and the gratitude of this creature 
whom he had succored. He fashioned his cart so 
that Patrasche could run in it, and this he did 
every morning of his life thenceforward. 

When the winter came, Jehan Daas thanked 
the blessed fortune that had brought him to the 
dying dog in the ditch that fair-day of Louvain; 
for he was very old, and he grew feebler with each 
year, and he would ill have known how to pull his 
load of milk-cans over the snows and through the 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 45 

deep ruts in the mud if it had not been for the 
strength and the industry of the animal he had 
befriended. As for Patrasche, it seemed heaven 
to him. After the frightful burdens that his old 
master had compelled him to strain under, at the 
call of the whip at every step, it seemed nothing 
to him but amusement to step out with this little 
light green cart, with its bright brass cans, by the 
side of the gentle old man who always paid him 
with a tender caress and with a kindly word. 
Besides, his work was over by three or four in the 
day, and after that time he was free to do as he 
would — to stretch himself, to sleep in the sun, to 
wander in the fields, to romp with the young child, 
or to play with his fellow-dogs. Patrasche was 
very happy. 

Fortunately for his peace, his former owner was 
killed in a drunken brawl at the Kermesse of 
Mechlin, and so sought not after him nor dis¬ 
turbed him in his new and well-loved home. 

A few years later, old Jehan Daas, who had al¬ 
ways been a cripple, became so paralyzed with 
rheumatism that it was impossible for him to go 
out with the cart any more. Then little Nello, 
being now grown to his sixth year of age, and 
knowing the town well from having accompanied 
his grandfather so many times, took his place be- 


46 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

side the cart, and sold the milk and received the 
coins in exchange, and brought them back to their 
respective owners with a pretty grace and serious¬ 
ness which charmed all who beheld him. 

The little Ardennois was a beautiful child, with 
dark, grave, tender eyes, and a lovely bloom upon 
his face, and fair locks that clustered to his throat; 
and many an artist sketched the group as it went 
by him — the green cart with the brass flagons of 
Teniers and Mieris and Van Tal, and the great 
tawny-colored, massive dog, with his belled har¬ 
ness that chimed cheerily as he went, and the 
small figure that ran beside him which had little 
white feet in great wooden shoes, and a soft, grave, 
innocent, happy face like the little fair children of 
Rubens. 

Nello and Patrasche did the work so well and so 
joyfully together that Jehan Daas himself, when 
the summer came and he was better again, had no 
need to stir out, but could sit in the doorway in 
the sun and see them go forth through the garden 
wicket, and then doze and dream and pray a little, 
and then awake again as the clock tolled three and 
watch for their return. And on their return Pat¬ 
rasche would shake himself free of his harness 
with a bay of glee, and Nello would recount with 
pride the doings of the day; and they would all go 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 47 

in together to their meal of rye bread and milk or 
soup, and would see the shadows lengthen over 
the great plain, and see the twilight veil the fair 
cathedral spire; and then lie down together to 
sleep peacefully while the old man said a prayer. 


Ill 

So the days and the years went on, and the lives 
of Nello and Patrasche were happy, innocent, and 
healthful. 

In the spring and summer especially were they 
glad. Flanders is not a lovely land, and around 
the burgh of Rubens it is perhaps least lovely of 
all. Corn and colza, pasture and plough, succeed 
each other on the characterless plain in wearying 
repetition, and save by some gaunt gray tower, 
with its peal of pathetic bells, or some figure com¬ 
ing athwart the fields, made picturesque by a 
gleaner’s bundle or a woodman’s fagot, there is 
no change, no variety, no beauty anywhere; and 
he who has dwelt upon the mountains or amidst 
the forests feels oppressed as by imprisonment 
with the tedium and the endlessness of that vast 
and dreary level. But it is green and very fertile, 
and it has wide horizons that have a certain charm 
of their own even in their dullness and monotony; 
and amongst the rushes by the waterside the 
flowers grow, and the trees rise tall and fresh 
where the barges glide with their great hulks 
black against the sun, and their little green bar¬ 
rels and varicolored flags gay against the leaves. 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 


49 

Anyway, there is greenery and breadth of space 
enough to be as good as beauty to a child and a 
dog; and these two asked no better, when their 
work was done, than to lie buried in the lush 
grasses on the side of the canal, and watch the 
cumbrous vessels drifting by and bringing the 
crisp salt smell of the sea amongst the blossoming 
scents of the country summer. 

True, in the winter it was harder, and they had 
to rise in the darkness and the bitter cold, and 
they had seldom as much as they could have eaten 
any day, and the hut was scarce better than a 
shed when the nights were cold, although it 
looked so pretty in warm weather, buried in a 
great kindly-clambering vine, that never bore 
fruit, indeed, but which covered it with luxuriant 
green tracery all through the months of blossom 
and harvest. In winter the winds found many 
holes in the walls of the poor little hut, and 
the vine was black and leafless, and the bare 
lands looked very bleak and drear without, and 
sometimes within the floor was flooded and then 
frozen. In winter it was hard, and the snow 
numbed the little white limbs of Nello, and the 
icicles cut the brave, untiring feet of Patrasche. 

But even then they were never heard to lament, 
either of them. The child’s wooden shoes and the 


50 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

dog’s four legs would trot manfully together over 
the frozen fields to the chime of the bells on the 
harness; and then sometimes, in the streets of 
Antwerp, some housewife would bring them a 
bowl of soup and a handful of bread, or some 
kindly trader would throw some billets of fuel into 
the little cart as it went homeward, or some wo¬ 
man in their own village would bid them keep 
some share of the milk they carried for their own 
food; and then they would run over the white 
lands, through the early darkness, bright and 
happy, and burst with a shout of joy into their 
home. 

So, on the whole, it was well with them, very 
well; and Patrasche, meeting on the highway or in 
the public streets the many dogs who toiled from 
daybreak into nightfall, paid only with blows and 
curses, and loosened from the shafts with a kick 
to starve and freeze as best they might — Pat¬ 
rasche in his heart was very grateful to his fate, 
and thought it the fairest and the kindliest the 
world could hold. Though he was often very hun¬ 
gry indeed when he lay down at night; though he 
had to work in the heats of summer noons and the 
rasping chills of winter dawns; though his feet 
were often tender with wounds from the sharp 
edges of the jagged pavement; though he had to 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 51 

perform tasks beyond his strength and against his 
nature — yet he was grateful and content: he did 
his duty with each day, and the eyes that he loved 
smiled down on him. It was sufficient for Pat- 
rasche. 

There was only one thing which caused Pat- 
rasche any uneasiness in his life, and it was this. 
Antwerp, as all the world knows, is full at every 
turn of old piles of stones, dark and ancient and 
majestic, standing in crooked courts, jammed 
against gateways and taverns, rising by the 
water’s edge, with bells ringing above them in 
the air, and ever and again out of their arched 
doors a swell of music pealing. There they remain, 
the grand old sanctuaries of the past, shut in 
amidst the squalor, the hurry, the crowds, the un¬ 
loveliness and the commerce of the modern world, 
and all day long the clouds drift and the birds 
circle and the winds sigh around them, and beneath 
the earth at their feet there sleeps — Rubens. 

And the greatness of the mighty Master still 
rests upon Antwerp, and wherever we turn in its 
narrow streets his glory lies therein, so that all 
mean things are thereby transfigured; and as we 
pace slowly through the winding ways, and by 
the edge of the stagnant water, and through the 
noisome courts, his spirit abides with us, and the 


52 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

heroic beauty of his visions is about us, and the 
stones that once felt his footsteps and bore his 
shadow seem to arise and speak of him with liv¬ 
ing voices. For the city which is the tomb of 
Rubens still lives to us through him, and him 
alone. 

It is so quiet there by that great white sepulchre 
— so quiet, save only when the organ peals and 
the choir cries aloud the Salve Regina or the 
Kyrie Eleison. Sure no artist ever had a greater 
gravestone than that pure marble sanctuary 
gives to him in the heart of his birthplace in the 
chancel of Saint Jacques. 

Without Rubens, what were Antwerp? A dirty, 
dusky, bustling mart, which no man would ever 
care to look upon save the traders who do busi¬ 
ness on its wharves. With Rubens, to the whole 
world of men it is a sacred name, a sacred soil, a 
Bethlehem where a god of Art saw light, a Gol¬ 
gotha where a god of Art lies dead. 

O nations! closely should you treasure your 
great men, for by them alone will the future know 
of you. Flanders in her generations has been wise. 
In his life she glorified this greatest of her sons, 
and in his death she magnifies his name. But her 
wisdom is very rare. 

Now, the trouble of Patrasche was this. Into 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 


53 

these great, sad piles of stones, that reared their 
melancholy majesty above the crowded roofs, the 
child Nello would many and many a time enter, 
and disappear through their dark, arched portals, 
whilst Patrasche, left without upon the pavement, 
would wearily and vainly ponder on what could 
be the charm which thus allured from him his in¬ 
separable and beloved companion. Once or twice 
he did essay to see for himself, clattering up the 
steps with his milk-cart behind him; but thereon 
he had been always sent back again summarily 
by a tall custodian in black clothes and silver 
chains of office; and fearful of bringing his little 
master into trouble, he desisted, and remained 
couched patiently before the churches until such 
time as the boy reappeared. It was not the fact 
of his going into them which disturbed Patrasche: 
he knew that people went to church: all the vil¬ 
lage went to the small, tumble-down, gray pile 
opposite the red windmill. What troubled him 
was that little Nello always looked strangely 
when he came out, always very flushed or very 
pale; and whenever he returned home after such 
visitations would sit silent and dreaming, not car¬ 
ing to play, but gazing out at the evening skies 
beyond the line of the canal, very subdued and 
almost sad. 


54 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

What was it? wondered Patrasche. He thought 
it could not be good or natural for the little lad 
to be so grave, and in his dumb fashion he tried 
all he could to keep Nello by him in the sunny 
fields or in the busy market-place. But to the 
churches Nello would go: most often of all would 
he go to the great cathedral; and Patrasche, left 
without on the stones by the iron fragments of 
Quentin Matsys’s gate, would stretch himself and 
yawn and sigh, and even howl now and then, all 
in vain, until the doors closed and the child per¬ 
force came forth again, and winding his arms 
about the dog’s neck would kiss him on his broad, 
tawny-colored forehead, and murmur always the 
same words: “ If I could only see them, Patrasche! 
— if I could only see them!” 

What were they? pondered Patrasche, looking 
up with large, wistful, sympathetic eyes. 

One day, when the custodian was out of the 
way and the doors left ajar, he got in for a mo¬ 
ment after his little friend and saw. “They” 
were two great covered pictures on either side of 
the choir. 

Nello was kneeling, rapt as in an ecstasy, before 
the altar-picture of the Assumption, and when he 
noticed Patrasche, and rose and drew the dog 
gently out into the air, his face was wet with tears, 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 


55 

and he looked up at the veiled places as he passed 
them, and murmured to his companion, “It is so 
terrible not to see them, Patrasche, just because 
one is poor and cannot pay! He never meant that 
the poor should not see them when he painted 
them, I am sure. He would have had us see them 
any day, every day: that I am sure. And they 
keep them shrouded there — shrouded in the 
dark, the beautiful things! — and they never feel 
the light, and no eyes look on them, unless rich 
people come and pay. If I could only see them, I 
would be content to die.” 

But he could not see them, and Patrasche could 
not help him, for to gain the silver piece that the 
church exacts as the price for looking on the 
glories of the Elevation of the Cross and the De¬ 
scent from the Cross was a thing as utterly be¬ 
yond the powers of either of them as it would have 
been to scale the heights of the cathedral spire. 
They had never so much as a sou to spare: if they 
cleared enough to get a little wood for the stove, 
a little broth for the pot, it was the utmost they 
could do. And yet the heart of the child was set 
in sore and endless longing upon beholding the 
greatness of the two veiled Rubens. 

The whole soul of the little Ardennois thrilled 
and stirred with an absorbing passion for Art. 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


56 

Going on his ways through the old city in the 
early days before the sun or the people had risen, 
Nello, who looked only a little peasant-boy, with 
a great dog drawing milk to sell from door to door, 
was in a heaven of dreams whereof Rubens was 
the god. Nello, cold and hungry, with stocking¬ 
less feet in wooden shoes, and the winter winds 
blowing amongst his curls and lifting his poor thin 
garments, was in a rapture of meditation, wherein 
all that he saw was the beautiful fair face of the 
Mary of the Assumption, with the waves of her 
golden hair lying upon her shoulders, and the 
light of an eternal sun shining down upon her 
brow. Nello, reared in poverty, and buffeted by 
fortune, and untaught in letters, and unheeded 
by men, had the compensation or the curse which 
is called Genius. 

No one knew it. He as little as any. No one 
knew it. Only indeed Patrasche, who, being with 
him always, saw him draw with chalk upon the 
stones any and every thing that grew or breathed, 
heard him on his little bed of hay murmur all 
manner of timid, pathetic prayers to the spirit of 
the great Master; watched his gaze darken and 
his face radiate at the evening glow of sunset or 
the rosy rising of the dawn; and felt many and 
many a time the tears of a strange nameless pain 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 


57 

and joy, mingled together, fall hotly from the 
bright young eyes upon his own wrinkled, yellow 
forehead. 

“I should go to my grave quite content if I 
thought, Nello, that when thou growest a man 
thou couldst own this hut and the little plot of 
ground, and labor for thyself, and be called Baas 
by thy neighbors,” said the old man Jehan many 
an hour from his bed. For to own a bit of soil, and 
to be called Baas — master — by the hamlet 
round, is to have achieved the highest ideal of a 
Flemish peasant; and the old soldier, who had 
wandered over all the earth in his youth, and had 
brought nothing back, deemed in his old age that 
to live and die on one spot in contented humility 
was the fairest fate he could desire for his darling. 
But Nello said nothing. 

The same leaven was working in him that in 
other times begat Rubens and Jordaens and the 
Van Eycks, and all their wondrous tribe, and in 
times more recent begat in the green country of 
the Ardennes, where the Meuse washes the old 
walls of Dijon, the great artist of the Patroclus, 
whose genius is too near us for us aright to mea¬ 
sure its divinity. 

Nello dreamed of other things in the future 
than of tilling the little rood of earth, and living 


58 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

under the wattle roof, and being called Baas by 
neighbors a little poorer or a little less poor than 
himself. The cathedral spire, where it rose be¬ 
yond the fields in the ruddy evening skies or in the 
dim, gray, misty mornings, said other things to 
him than this. But these he told only to Pat- 
rasche, whispering, childlike, his fancies in the 
dog’s ear when they went together at their work 
through the fogs of the daybreak, or lay together 
at their rest amongst the rustling rushes by the 
water’s side. 

For such dreams are not easily shaped into 
speech to awake the slow sympathies of human 
auditors; and they would only have sorely per¬ 
plexed and troubled the poor old man bedridden 
in his corner, who, for his part, whenever he had 
trodden the streets of Antwerp, had thought the 
daub of blue and red that they called a Madonna, 
on the walls of the wineshop where he drank his 
sou’s worth of black beer, quite as good as any of 
the famous altar-pieces for which the stranger folk 
traveled far and wide into Flanders from every 
land on which the good sun shone. 


IV 

There was only one other beside Patrasche to 
whom Nello could talk at all of his daring fan¬ 
tasies. This other was little Alois, who lived at 
the old red mill on the grassy mound, and whose 
father, the miller, was the best-to-do husbandman 
in all the village. Little Alois was only a pretty 
baby with soft, round, rosy features, made lovely 
by those sweet, dark eyes that the Spanish rule 
has left in so many a Flemish face, in testimony 
of the Alvan dominion, as Spanish art has left 
broadsown throughout the country majestic pal¬ 
aces and stately courts, gilded house-fronts and 
sculptured lintels — histories in blazonry and 
poems in stone. 

Little Alois was often with Nello and Patrasche. 
They played in the fields, they ran in the snow, 
they gathered the daisies and bilberries, they went 
up to the old gray church together, and they often 
sat together by the broad wood-fire in the mill- 
house. Little Alois, indeed, was the richest child 
in the hamlet. She had neither brother nor sister; 
her blue serge dress had never a hole in it; at Ker- 
messe she had as many gilded nuts and Agni Dei 
in sugar as her hands could hold; and when she 


6o 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


went up for her first communion her flaxen curls 
were covered with a cap of richest Mechlin lace, 
which had been her mother’s and her grandmo¬ 
ther’s before it came to her. Men spoke already, 
though she had but twelve years, of the good wife 
she would be for their sons to woo and win; but 
she herself was a little gay, simple child, in no 
wise conscious of her heritage, and she loved no 
playfellows so well as Jehan Daas’s grandson and 
his dog. 

One day her father, Baas Cogez, a good man, 
but somewhat stern, came on a pretty group in 
the long meadow behind the mill, where the after- 
math had that day been cut. It was his little 
daughter sitting amidst the hay, with the great 
tawny head of Patrasche on her lap, and many 
wreaths of poppies and blue corn-flowers round 
them both: on a clean smooth slab of pine wood 
the boy Nello drew their likeness with a stick of 
charcoal. 

The miller stood and looked at the portrait with 
tears in his eyes, it was so strangely like, and he 
loved his only child closely and well. Then he 
roughly chid the little girl for idling there whilst 
her mother needed her within, and sent her indoors 
crying and afraid; then, turning, he snatched the 
wood from Nello’s hands. “ Dost do much of such 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 61 

folly?” he asked, but there was a tremble in his 
voice. 

Nello colored and hung his head. “ I draw every¬ 
thing I see,” he murmured. 

The miller was silent; then he stretched his hand 
out with a franc in it. “It is folly, as I say, and 
evil waste of time; nevertheless, it is like Alois, 
and will please the house-mother. Take this silver 
bit for it and leave it for me.” 

The color died out of the face of the young 
Ardennois: he lifted his head and put his hands be¬ 
hind his back. 4 ‘ Keep your money and the portrait 
both, Baas Cogez,” he said simply. “You have 
been often good to me.” Then he called Patrasche 
to him, and walked away across the fields. 

“I could have seen them with that franc,” he 
murmured to Patrasche, “but I could not sell her 
picture — not even for them.” 

Baas Cogez went into his mill-house sore 
troubled in his mind. “That lad must not be so 
much with Alois,” he said to his wife that night. 
“Trouble may come of it hereafter: he is fifteen 
now, and she is twelve; and the boy is comely of 
face and form.” 

“And he is a good lad and a loyal,” said the 
housewife, feasting her eyes on the piece of pine 
wood where it was throned above the chimney 


62 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

with a cuckoo clock in oak and a Calvary in wax. 

“Yea, I do not gainsay that,” said the miller 
draining his pewter flagon. 

“Then, if what you think of were ever to come 
to pass,” said the wife, hesitatingly, “would it 
matter so much? She will have enough for both, 
and one cannot be better than happy.” 

“You are a woman, and therefore a fool,” said 
the miller, harshly, striking his pipe on the table. 
“The lad is naught but a beggar, and, with these 
painter’s fancies, worse than a beggar. Have a 
care that they are not together in the future, or I 
will send the child to the surer keeping of the nuns 
of the Sacred Heart.” 

The poor mother was terrified, and promised 
humbly to do his will. Not that she could bring 
herself altogether to separate the child from her 
favorite playmate, nor did the miller even desire 
that extreme of cruelty to a young lad who was 
guilty of nothing except poverty. But there were 
many ways in which little Alois was kept away 
from her chosen companion: and Nello, being a 
boy proud and quiet and sensitive, was quickly 
wounded, and ceased to turn his own steps and 
those of Patrasche, as he had been used to do with 
every moment of leisure, to the old red mill upon 
the slope. What his offense was he did not know; 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 63 

he supposed he had in some manner angered Baas 
Cogez by taking the portrait of Alois in the meadow: 
and when the child who loved him would run to 
him and nestle her hand in his, he would smile at 
her very sadly and say with a tender concern for 
her before himself, “ Nay, Alois, do not anger your 
father. He thinks that I make you idle, dear, and 
he is not pleased that you should be with me. He 
is a good man and loves you well: we will not 
anger him, Alois.” 

But it was with a sad heart that he said it, and 
the earth did not look so bright to him as it had 
used to do when he went out at sunrise under the 
poplars down the straight roads with Patrasche. 
The old red mill had been a landmark to him, and 
he had been used to pause by it, going and coming, 
for a cheery greeting with its people as her little 
flaxen head rose above the low mill-wicket, and her 
little rosy hands had held out a bone or a crust to 
Patrasche. Now the dog looked wistfully at a 
closed door, and the boy went on without pausing, 
with a pang at his heart, and the child sat within 
with tears dropping slowly on the knitting to which 
she was set on her little stool by the stove; and 
Baas Cogez, working among his sacks and his 
mill-gear, would harden his will and say to himself, 
“ It is best so. The lad is all but a beggar, and full 


64 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

of idle, dreaming fooleries. Who knows what mis¬ 
chief might not come of it in the future?’' 

So he was wise in his generation, and would not 
have the door unbarred, except upon rare and 
formal occasions, which seemed to have neither 
warmth nor mirth in them to the two children, 
who had been accustomed so long to a daily gleeful, 
careless, happy interchange of greeting, speech, 
and pastime, with no other watcher of their sports 
or auditor of their fancies than Patrasche, sagely 
shaking the brazen bells of his collar and respond¬ 
ing with all a dog’s swift sympathies to their every 
change of mood. 

All this while the little panel of pine wood re¬ 
mained over the chimney in the mill-kitchen with 
the cuckoo clock and the waxen Calvary; and 
sometimes it seemed to Nello a little hard that 
whilst his gift was accepted he himself should be 
denied. 

But he did not complain: it was his habit to be 
quiet: old Jehan Daas had said ever to him, “We 
are poor: we must take what God sends — the ill 
with the good: the poor cannot choose.” 

To which the boy had always listened in silence, 
being reverent of his old grandfather; but never¬ 
theless a certain vague, sweet hope, such as beguiles 
the children of genius, had whispered in his heart, 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 65 

“Yet the poor do choose sometimes — choose to 
be great so that men cannot say them nay.” And 
he thought so still in his innocence; and one day, 
when the little Alois, finding him by chance alone 
amongst the cornfields by the canal, ran to him 
and held him close, and sobbed piteously because 
the morrow would be her saint’s day, and for the 
first time in all her life her parents had failed to bid 
him to the little supper and romp in the great barns 
with which her feast-day was always celebrated, 
Nello had kissed her and murmured to her in firm 
faith, “ It shall be different one day, Alois. One day 
that little bit of pine wood that your father has of 
mine shall be worth its weight in silver; and he 
will not shut the door against me then. Only love 
me always, dear little Alois, only love me always, 
and I will be great.” 

“And if I do not love you?” the pretty child 
asked, pouting a little through her tears, and 
moved by the instinctive coquetries of her sex. 

Nello’s eyes left her face and wandered to the 
distance, where in the red and gold of the Flemish 
night the cathedral spire rose. There was a smile 
on his face so sweet and yet so sad that little Alois 
was awed by it. “I will be great still,” he said 
under his breath — “great still, or die, Alois.” 

“You do not love me,” said the little spoilt child, 


66 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

pushing him away; but the boy shook his head and 
smiled, and went on his way through the tall 
yellow corn, seeing as in a vision some day in a fair 
future when he should come into that old familiar 
land and ask Alois of her people, and be not re¬ 
fused or denied but received in honor, whilst the 
village folk should throng to look upon him and say 
in one another’s ears, “Dost see him? He is a king 
among men, for he is a great artist and the world 
speaks his name; and yet he was only our poor 
little Nello, who was a beggar, as one may say, and 
only got his bread by the help of his dog.” And he 
thought how he would fold his grandsire in furs and 
purples, and portray him as the old man is por¬ 
trayed in the Family in the chapel of Saint Jacques; 
and of how he would hang the throat of Patrasche 
with a collar of gold, and place him on his right 
hand, and say to the people, “This was once my 
only friend ”; and of how he would build himself a 
great white marble palace, and make to himself 
luxuriant gardens of pleasure, on the slope looking 
outward to where the cathedral spire rose, and not 
dwell in it himself, but summon to it, as to a home, 
all men young and poor and friendless, but of the 
will to do mighty things; and of how he would say 
to them always, if they sought to bless his name, 
“Nay, do not thank me — thank Rubens. With- 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 67 

out him, what should I have been?” And these 
dreams, beautiful, impossible, innocent, free of all 
selfishness, full of heroical worship, were so closely 
about him as he went that he was happy — happy 
even on this sad anniversary of Alois’s saint’s day, 
when he and Patrasche went home by themselves 
to the little dark hut and the meal of black bread, 
whilst in the mill-house all the children of the 
village sang and laughed, and ate the big round 
cakes of Dijon and the almond gingerbread of 
Brabant, and danced in the great barn to the light 
of the stars and the music of flute and fiddle. 

“ Never mind, Patrasche,” he said, with his 
arms round the dog’s neck as they both sat in the 
door of the hut, where the sounds of the mirth at 
the mill came down to them on the night air — 
“never mind. It shall all be changed by and by.” 

He believed in the future: Patrasche, of more 
experience and of more philosophy, thought that 
the loss of the mill-supper in the present was ill 
compensated by dreams of milk and honey in some 
vague hereafter. And Patrasche growled when¬ 
ever he passed by Baas Cogez. 

“This is Alois’s name-day, is it not?” said the 
old man Daas that night from the corner where he 
was stretched upon his bed of sacking. 

The boy gave a gesture of assent: he wished that 


68 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


the old man’s memory had erred a little, instead of 
keeping such sure account. 

44 And why not there?” his grandfather pursued. 
“Thou hast never missed a year before, Nello.” 

“Thou art too sick to leave,” murmured the lad, 
bending his handsome young head over the bed. 

“Tut! tut! Mother Nulette would have come 
and sat with me, as she does scores of times. What 
is the cause, Nello ? ’ ’ the old man persisted. 4 4 Thou 
surely hast not had ill words with the little one? ” 

“Nay, grandfather — never,” said the boy, 
quickly, with a hot color in his bent face. “Simply 
and truly, Baas Cogez did not have me asked this 
year. He has taken some whim against me.” 

“But thou hast done nothing wrong?” 

“That I know — nothing. I took the portrait of 
Alois on a piece of pine: that is all.” 

“Ah!” The old man was silent: the truth sug¬ 
gested itself to him with the boy’s innocent an¬ 
swer. He was tied to a bed of dried leaves in the 
corner of a wattle hut, but he had not wholly for¬ 
gotten what the ways of the world were like. 

He drew Nello’s fair head fondly to his breast 
with a tenderer gesture. “Thou art very poor, my 
child,” he said with a quiver the more in his aged, 
trembling voice — 44 so poor! It is very hard for 
thee.” 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 69 

“Nay, I am rich,” murmured Nello; and in lib 
innocence he thought so — rich with the imperish¬ 
able powers that are mightier than the might of 
kings. And he went and stood by the door of the 
hut in the quiet autumn night, and watched the 
stars troop by and the tall poplars bend and shiver 
in the wind. All the casements of the mill-house 
were lighted, and every now and then the notes of 
the flute came to him. The tears fell down his 
cheeks, for he was but a child, yet he smiled, for he 
said to himself, “ In the future!” He stayed there 
until all was quite still and dark, then he and 
Patrasche went within and slept together long and 
deeply, side by side. 


V 

Now he had a secret which only Patrasche knew. 
There was a little outhouse to the hut, which no 
one entered but himself — a dreary place, but 
with abundant clear light from the north. Here he 
had fashioned himself rudely an easel in rough 
lumber, and here on a great gray sea of stretched 
paper he had given shape to one of the innumerable 
fancies which possessed his brain. No one had 
ever taught him anything; colors he had no means 
to buy; he had gone without bread many a time to 
procure even the few rude vehicles that he had here; 
and it was only in black or white that he could 
fashion the things he saw. This great figure which 
he had drawn here in chalk was only an old man 
sitting on a fallen tree — only that. He had seen 
old Michel the woodman sitting so at evening 
many a time. He had never had a soul to tell him 
of outline or perspective, of anatomy or of shadow, 
and yet he had given all the weary, worn-out age, 
all the sad, quiet patience, all the rugged, careworn 
pathos of his original, and given them so that the 
old lonely figure was a poem, sitting there, medi¬ 
tative and alone, on the dead tree, with the dark¬ 
ness of the descending night behind him. 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 71 

It was rude, of course, in a way, and had many 
faults, no doubt; and yet it was real, true in 
Nature, true in Art, and very mournful, and in a 
manner beautiful. 

Patrasche had lain quiet countless hours watch¬ 
ing its gradual creation after the labor of each day 
was done, and he knew that Nello had a hope — 
vain and wild perhaps, but strongly cherished — 
of sending this great drawing to compete for a 
prize of two hundred francs a year which it was 
announced in Antwerp would be open to every lad 
of talent, scholar or peasant, under eighteen, who 
would attempt to win it with some unaided work 
of chalk or pencil. Three of the foremost artists 
in the town of Rubens were to be the judges and 
elect the victor according to his merits. 

All the spring and summer and autumn Nello 
had been at work upon this treasure, which, if 
triumphant, would build him his first step toward 
independence and the mysteries of the art which 
he blindly, ignorantly, and yet passionately adored. 

He said nothing to any one: his grandfather 
would not have understood, and little Alois was 
lost to him. Only to Patrasche he told all, and 
whispered, “ Rubens would give it me, I think, if 
he knew.” 

Patrasche thought so too, for he knew that 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


72 

Rubens had loved dogs or he had never painted 
them with such exquisite fidelity; and men who 
loved dogs were, as Patrasche knew, always pitiful. 

The drawings were to go in on the first day of 
December, and the decision be given on the 
twenty-fourth, so that he who should win might 
rejoice with all his people at the Christmas sea¬ 
son. 

In the twilight of a bitter wintry day, and with 
a beating heart, now quick with hope, now faint 
with fear, Nello placed the great picture on his 
little green milk-cart, and took it, with the help of 
Patrasche, into the town, and there left it, as en¬ 
joined, at the doors of a public building. 

“ Perhaps it is worth nothing at all. How can I 
tell?” he thought, with the heart-sickness of a 
great timidity. Now that he had left it there, it 
seemed to him so hazardous, so vain, so foolish, to 
dream that he, a little lad with bare feet, who 
barely knew his letters, could do anything at 
which great painters, real artists, could ever deign 
to look. Yet he took heart as he went by the 
cathedral: the lordly form of Rubens seemed to rise 
from the fog and the darkness, and to loom in its 
magnificence before him, whilst the lips with their 
kindly smile seemed to him to murmur, “Nay, 
have courage! It was not by a weak heart and by 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 


73 

faint fears that I wrote my name for all time upon 
Antwerp.” 

Nello ran home through the cold night, com¬ 
forted. He had done his best: the rest must be as 
God willed, he thought, in that innocent, un¬ 
questioning faith which had been taught him in 
the little gray chapel amongst the willows and the 
poplar-trees. 

The winter was very sharp already. That night, 
after they had reached the hut, snow fell; and fell 
for very many days after that, so that the paths 
and the divisions in the fields were all obliterated, 
and all the smaller streams were frozen over, and 
the cold was intense upon the plains. Then, in¬ 
deed, it became hard work to go round for the milk 
while the world was all dark, and carry it through 
the darkness to the silent town. Hard work, es¬ 
pecially for Patrasche, for the passage of the years, 
that were only bringing Nello a stronger youth, 
were bringing him old age, and his joints were stiff 
and his bones ached often. But he would never 
give up his share of the labor. Nello would fain 
have spared him and drawn the cart himself, but 
Patrasche would not allow it. All he would ever 
permit or accept was the help of a thrust from 
behind to the truck as it lumbered along through 
the ice-ruts. Patrasche had lived in harness, and 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


74 

he was proud of it. He suffered a great deal 
sometimes from frost, and the terrible roads, and 
the rheumatic pains of his limbs, but he only drew 
his breath hard and bent his stout neck, and trod 
onward with steady patience. 

“ Rest thee at home, Patrasche — it is time thou 
didst rest — and I can quite well push in the cart 
by myself,” urged Nello many a morning; but 
Patrasche, who understood him aright, would no 
more have consented to stay at home than a 
veteran soldier to shirk when the charge was 
sounding; and every day he would rise and place 
himself in his shafts, and plod along over the snow 
through the fields that his four round feet had left 
their print upon so many, many years. 

“One must never rest till one dies,” thought 
Patrasche; and sometimes it seemed to him that 
that time of rest for him was not very far off. His 
sight was less clear than it had been, and it gave 
him pain to rise after the night’s sleep, though he 
would never lie a moment in his straw when once 
the bell of the chapel tolling five let him know that 
the daybreak of labor had begun. 

“My poor Patrasche, we shall soon lie quiet to¬ 
gether, you and I,” said old Jehan Daas, stretching 
out to stroke the head of Patrasche with the old 
withered hand which had always shared with him 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 75 

its one poor crust of bread; and the hearts of the 
old man and the old dog ached together with one 
thought: When they were gone who would care 
for their darling? 


VI 

One afternoon, as they came back from Antwerp 
over the snow, which had become hard and smooth 
as marble over all the Flemish plains, they found 
dropped in the road a pretty little puppet, a tam¬ 
bourine-player, all scarlet and gold, about six 
inches high, and, unlike greater personages when 
Fortune lets them drop, quite unspoiled and un¬ 
hurt by its fall. It was a pretty toy. Nello tried to 
find its owner, and failing, thought that it was just 
the thing to please Alois. 

It was quite night when he passed the mill-house: 
he knew the little window of her room. It could be 
no harm, he thought, if he gave her his little piece 
of treasure-trove, they had been playfellows so 
long. There was a shed with a sloping roof be¬ 
neath her casement: he climbed it and tapped 
softly at the lattice: there was a little light within. 
The child opened it and looked out, half frightened. 

Nello put the tambourine-player into her hands. 
“Here is a doll I found in the snow, Alois. Take 
it,” he whispered — “take it, and God bless thee, 
dear!” 

He slid down from the shed-roof before she had 
time to thank him, and ran off through the dark¬ 


ness. 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 77 

That night there was a fire at the mill. Out¬ 
buildings and much corn were destroyed, although 
the mill itself and the dwelling-house were un¬ 
harmed. All the village was out in terror, and 
engines came tearing through the snow from Ant¬ 
werp. The miller was insured, and would lose 
nothing: nevertheless, he was in furious wrath, and 
declared aloud that the fire was due to no accident, 
but to some foul intent. 

Nello, awakened from his sleep, ran to help with 
the rest: Baas Cogez thrust him angrily aside. 
“Thou wert loitering here after dark,” he said 
roughly. “I believe, on my soul, that thou dost 
know more of the fire than any one.” 

Nello heard him in silence, stupefied, not sup¬ 
posing that any one could say such things except 
in jest, and not comprehending how any one could 
pass a jest at such a time. 

Nevertheless, the miller said the brutal thing 
openly to many of his neighbors in the day that 
followed; and though no serious charge was ever 
preferred against the lad, it got bruited about that 
Nello had been seen in the mill-yard after dark 
on some unspoken errand, and that he bore Baas 
Cogez a grudge for forbidding his intercourse with 
little Alois; and so the hamlet, which followed the 
sayings of its richest landowner servilely, and 


78 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

whose families all hoped to secure the riches of 
Alois in some future time for their sons, took the 
hint to give grave looks and cold words to old 
Jehan Daas’s grandson. No one said anything to 
him openly, but all the village agreed together to 
humor the miller’s prejudice, and at the cottages 
and farms where Nello and Patrasche called every 
morning for the milk for Antwerp, downcast 
glances and brief phrases replaced to them the 
broad smiles and cheerful greetings to which they 
had been always used. No one really credited the 
miller’s absurd suspicions, nor the outrageous ac¬ 
cusations born of them, but the people were all 
very poor and very ignorant, and the one rich man 
of the place had pronounced against him. Nello, 
in his innocence and his friendlessness, had no 
strength to stem the popular tide. 

“Thou art very cruel to the lad,” the miller’s 
wife dared to say, weeping, to her lord. “Sure he 
is an innocent lad and a faithful, and would never 
dream of any such wickedness, however sore his 
heart might be.” 

But Baas Cogez being an obstinate man, having 
once said a thing, held to it doggedly, though in 
his innermost soul he knew well the injustice that 
he was committing. 

Meanwhile, Nello endured the injury done 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 79 

against him with a certain proud patience that 
disdained to complain; he only gave way a little 
when he was quite alone with old Patrasche. Be¬ 
sides, he thought, “If it should win! They will be 
sorry then, perhaps." 

Still, to a boy not quite sixteen, and who had 
dwelt in one little world all his short life, and in his 
childhood had been caressed and applauded on all 
sides, it was a hard trial to have the whole of that 
little world turn against him for naught. Es¬ 
pecially hard in that bleak, snow-bound, famine- 
stricken winter-time, when the only light and 
warmth there could be found abode beside the vil¬ 
lage hearths and in the kindly greetings of neigh¬ 
bors. In the winter-time all drew nearer to each 
other, all to all, except to Nello and Patrasche, 
with whom none now would have anything to do, 
and who were left to fare as they might with the 
old paralyzed, bedridden man in the little cabin, 
whose fire was often low, and whose board was 
often without bread, for there was a buyer from 
Antwerp who had taken to drive his mule in of a 
day for the milk of the various dairies, and there 
were only three or four of the people who had 
refused his terms of purchase and remained faith¬ 
ful to the little green cart. So that the burden 
which Patrasche drew had become very light, and 


8o 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


the centime-pieces in Nello’s pouch had become, 
alas! very small likewise. 

The dog would stop, as usual, at all the familiar 
gates which were now closed to him, and look up at 
them with wistful, mute appeal; and it cost the 
neighbors a pang to shut their doors and their 
hearts, and let Patrasche draw his cart on again, 
empty. Nevertheless, they did it, for they desired 
to please Baas Cogez. 


VII 

Noel was close at hand. 

The weather was very wild and cold. The snow 
was six feet deep, and the ice was firm enough to 
bear oxen and men upon it everywhere. At this 
season the little village was always gay and cheer¬ 
ful. At the poorest dwelling there were possets 
and cakes, joking and dancing, sugared saints and 
gilded J6sus. The merry Flemish bells jingled 
everywhere on the horses; everywhere within 
doors some well-filled soup-pot sang and smoked 
over the stove; and everywhere over the snow 
without laughing maidens pattered in bright ker¬ 
chiefs and stout kirtles, going to and from the 
mass. Only in the little hut it was very dark and 
very cold. 

Nello and Patrasche were left utterly alone, for 
one night in the week before the Christmas Day 
death entered there, and took away from life for¬ 
ever old Jehan Daas, who had never known of life 
aught save its poverty and its pains. He had long 
been half dead, incapable of any movement ex¬ 
cept a feeble gesture, and powerless for anything 
beyond a gentle word; and yet his loss fell on them 
both with a great horror in it; they mourned him 


82 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


passionately. He had passed away from them in 
his sleep, and when in the gray dawn they learned 
their bereavement, unutterable solitude and de¬ 
solation seemed to close around them. He had 
long been only a poor, feeble, paralyzed old man, 
who could not raise a hand in their defense, but he 
had loved them well; his smile had always wel¬ 
comed their return. They mourned for him un¬ 
ceasingly, refusing to be comforted, as in the 
white winter day they followed the deal shell that 
held his body to the nameless grave by the little 
gray church. They were his only mourners, these 
two whom he had left friendless upon earth — the 
young boy and the old dog. 

“Surely, he will relent now and let the poor lad 
come hither?” thought the miller’s wife, glanc¬ 
ing at her husband where he smoked by the 
hearth. 

Baas Cogez knew her thought, but he hardened 
his heart, and would not unbar his door as the lit¬ 
tle, humble funeral went by. “The boy is a beg¬ 
gar,” he said to himself: “he shall not be about 
Alois.” 

The woman dared not say anything aloud, but 
when the grave was closed and the mourners had 
gone, she put a wreath of immortelles into Alois’s 
hands and bade her go and lay it reverently on the 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 83 

dark, unmarked mound where the snow was dis¬ 
placed. 

Nello and Patrasche went home with broken 
hearts. But even of that poor, melancholy, cheer¬ 
less home they were denied the consolation. There 
was a month’s rent overdue for their little home, 
and when Nello had paid the last sad service to the 
dead, he had not a coin left. He went and begged 
grace of the owner of the hut, a cobbler who went 
every Sunday night to drink his pint of wine and 
smoke with Baas Cogez. The cobbler would grant 
no mercy. He was a harsh, miserly man, and 
loved money. He claimed in default of his rent 
every stick and stone, every pot and pan, in the 
hut, and bade Nello and Patrasche be out of it on 
the morrow. 

Now, the cabin was lowly enough, and in some 
sense miserable enough, and yet their hearts clove 
to it with a great affection. They had been so 
happy there, and in the summer, with its clamber¬ 
ing vine and its flowering beans, it was so pretty 
and bright in the midst of the sun-lighted fields! 
Their life in it had been full of labor and privation 
and yet they had been so well content, so gay of 
heart, running together to meet the old man’s 
never-failing smile of welcome! 

All night long the boy and the dog sat by the 


84 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

fireless hearth in the darkness, drawn close to¬ 
gether for warmth and sorrow. Their bodies were 
insensible to the cold, but their hearts seemed 
frozen in them. 

When the morning broke over the white, chill 
earth, it was the morning of Christmas Eve. 
With a shudder, Nello clasped close to him his 
only friend, while his tears fell hot and fast on the 
dog’s frank forehead. “Let us go, Patrasche — 
dear, dear Patrasche,” he murmured. “ We will 
not wait to be kicked out: let us go.” 

Patrasche had no will but his, and they went 
sadly, side by side, out from the little place which 
was so dear to them both, and in which every 
humble, homely thing was to them precious and 
beloved. Patrasche drooped his head wearily as 
he passed by his own green cart; it was no longer 
his — it had to go with the rest to pay the rent, 
and his brass harness lay idle and glittering on the 
snow. The dog could have lain down beside it and 
died for very heart-sickness as he went, but whilst 
the lad lived and needed him Patrasche would not 
yield and give way. 

They took the old accustomed road into Ant¬ 
werp. The day had yet scarce more than dawned, 
most of the shutters were still closed, but some of 
the villagers were about. They took no notice 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 85 

whilst the dog and the boy passed by them. At 
one door Nello paused and looked wistfully with¬ 
in : his grandfather had done many a kindly turn in 
neighbor’s service to the people who dwelt there. 

“Would you give Patrasche a crust?” he said 
timidly. “He is old, and he has had nothing 
since last forenoon.” 

The woman shut the door hastily, murmuring 
some vague saying about wheat and rye being 
very dear that season. The boy and the dog went 
on again wearily: they asked no more. 

By slow and painful ways they reached Ant* 
werp as the chimes tolled ten. 

“ If I had anything about me I could sell to get 
him bread!” thought Nello, but he had nothing 
except the wisp of linen and serge that covered 
him, and his pair of wooden shoes. 

Patrasche understood, and nestled his nose into 
the lad’s hand, as though to pray him not to be 
disquieted for any woe or want of his. 

The winner of the drawing-prize was to be pro¬ 
claimed at noon, and to the public building where 
he had left his treasure Nello made his way. On 
the steps and in the entrance-hall was a crowd of 
youths — some of his age, some older, all with 
parents or relatives or friends. His heart was sick 
with fear as he went amongst them, holding Pat- 


86 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


rasche close to him. The great bells of the city 
clashed out the hour of noon with brazen clamor. 
The doors of the inner hall were opened; the eager, 
panting throng rushed in; it was known that the 
selected picture would be raised above the rest 
upon a wooden dais. 

A mist obscured Nello’s sight, his head swam, 
his limbs almost failed him. When his vision 
cleared he saw the drawing raised on high: it was 
not his own! A slow, sonorous voice was pro¬ 
claiming aloud that victory had been adjudged to 
Stephan Kiesslinger, born in the burgh of Ant¬ 
werp, son of a wharfinger in that town. 

When Nello recovered his consciousness, he 
was lying on the stones without, and Patrasche 
was trying with every art he knew to call him 
back to life. In the distance a throng of the youths 
of Antwerp were shouting around their successful 
comrade, and escorting him with acclamations to 
his home upon the quay. 

The boy staggered to his feet and drew the dog 
into his embrace. “It is all over, dear Patrasche/* 
he murmured — “all over!” 

He rallied himself as best he could, for he was 
weak from fasting, and retraced his steps to the 
village. Patrasche paced by his side with his 
head drooping and his old limbs feeble from hun¬ 
ger and sorrow. 


VIII 

The snow was falling fast: a keen hurricane blew 
from the north: it was bitter as death on the 
plains. It took them long to traverse the familiar 
path, and the bells were sounding four of the clock 
as they approached the hamlet. Suddenly Pat- 
rasche paused, arrested by a scent in the snow, 
scratched, whined, and drew out with his teeth a 
small case of brown leather. He held it up to 
Nello in the darkness. Where they were there 
stood a little Calvary, and a lamp burned dully 
under the cross: the boy mechanically turned the 
case to the light: on it was the name of Baas Co- 
gez, and within it were notes for two thousand 
francs. 

The sight roused the lad a little from his stupor. 
He thrust it in his shirt, and stroked Patrasche 
and drew him onward. The dog looked up wist¬ 
fully in his face. 

Nello made straight for the mill-house, and 
went to the house-door and struck on its panels. 
The miller’s wife opened it weeping, with little 
Alois clinging close to her skirts. 

“Is it thee, thou poor lad?’’ she said kindly 
through her tears. “Get thee gone ere the Baas 


88 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

see thee. We are in sore trouble to-night. He is 
out seeking for a power of money that he has let 
fall riding homeward, and in this snow he never 
will find it; and God knows it will go nigh to ruin 
us. It is Heaven’s own judgment for the things 
we have done to thee.” 

Nello put the note-case in her hand and called 
Patrasche within the house. 1 ‘ Patrasche found the 
money to-night,” he said quickly. “Tell Baas 
Cogez so; I think he will not deny the dog shelter 
and food in his old age. Keep him from pursuing 
me, and I pray of you to be good to him.” 

Ere either woman or dog knew what he meant, 
he had stooped and kissed Patrasche: then closed 
the door hurriedly, and disappeared in the gloom 
of the fast-falling night. 

The woman and the child stood speechless with 
joy and fear: Patrasche vainly spent the fury of 
his anguish against the iron-bound oak of the 
barred house-door. They did not dare unbar the 
door and let him forth: they tried all they could to 
solace him. They brought him sweet cakes and 
juicy meats; they tempted him with the best they 
had; they tried to lure him to abide by the warmth 
of the hearth: but it was of no avail. Patrasche 
refused to be comforted or to stir from the barred 
portal. 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 89 

It was six o’clock when from an opposite en¬ 
trance the miller at last came, jaded and broken, 
into his wife's presence. 

“It is lost forever,” he said, with an ashen 
cheek and a quiver in his stern voice. “We have 
looked with lanterns everywhere: it is gone — 
the little maiden’s portion and all!” 

His wife put the money into his hand, and told 
him how it had come to her. The strong man sank 
trembling into a seat and covered his face, 
ashamed and almost afraid. “ I have been cruel to 
the lad,” he muttered at length: “I deserved not 
to have good at his hands.” 

Little Alois, taking courage, crept close to her 
father and nestled against him her fair curly head. 
“Nello may come here again, father?” she whis¬ 
pered. “He may come to-morrow as he used to 
do?” 

The miller pressed her in his arms: his hard, 
sunburnt face was very pale, and his mouth trem¬ 
bled. “Surely, surely,” he answered his child. 
“He shall bide here on Christmas Day, and any 
other day he will. God helping me, I will make 
amends to the boy — I will make amends.” 

Little Alois kissed him in gratitude and joy, 
then slid from his knees and ran to where the dog 
kept watch by the door. “And to-night I may 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


90 

feast Patrasche?” she cried in a child’s thought¬ 
less glee. 

Her father bent his head gravely: “Aye, aye! 
let the dog have the best.” For the stern old man 
was moved and shaken to his heart’s depths. 

It was Christmas Eve, and the mill-house was 
filled with oak logs and squares of turf, with 
cream and honey, with meat and bread, and the 
rafters were hung with wreaths of evergreen, and 
the Calvary and the cuckoo clock looked out from 
a mass of holly. There were little paper lanterns 
too for Alois, and toys of various fashions and 
sweetmeats in bright-pictured papers. There 
were light and warmth and abundance every¬ 
where, and the child would fain have made the 
dog a guest honored and feasted. 

But Patrasche would neither lie in the warmth 
nor share in the cheer. Famished he was and very 
cold, but without Nello he would partake neither 
of comfort nor food. Against all temptation he 
was proof, and close against the door he leaned 
always, watching only for a means of escape. 

“He wants the lad,” said Baas Cogez. “Good 
dog! good dog! I will go over to the lad the first 
thing at day-dawn.” For no one but Patrasche 
knew that Nello had left the hut, and no one but 
Patrasche divined that Nello had gone to face 
starvation and misery alone. 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 91 

The mill-kitchen was very warm; great logs 
crackled and flamed on the hearth; neighbors 
came in for a glass of wine and a slice of the fat 
goose baking for supper. Alois, gleeful and sure 
of her playmate back on the morrow, bounded and 
sang and tossed back her yellow hair. Baas Cogez, 
in the fullness of his heart, smiled on her through 
moistened eyes, and spoke of the way in which he 
would befriend her favorite companion; the house¬ 
mother sat with calm, contented face at the spin¬ 
ning-wheel ; the cuckoo in the clock chirped mirthful 
hours. Amidst it all Patrasche was bidden with a 
thousand words of welcome to tarry there a cher¬ 
ished guest. But neither peace nor plenty could 
allure him where Nello was not. 

When the supper smoked on the board, and the 
voices were loudest and gladdest, and the Christ- 
child brought choicest gifts to Alois, Patrasche, 
watching always an occasion, glided out when the 
door was unlatched by a careless new-comer, and 
as swiftly as his weak and tired limbs would bear 
him sped over the snow in the bitter, black night. 
He had only one thought — to follow Nello. A 
human friend might have paused for the pleasant 
meal, the cheery warmth, the cosy slumber; but 
that was not the friendship of Patrasche. He re¬ 
membered a bygone time, when an old man and a 


92 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

little child had found him sick unto death in the 
wayside ditch. 

Snow had fallen freshly all the evening long; it 
was now nearly ten; the trail of the boy’s footsteps 
was almost obliterated. It took Patrasche long to 
discover any scent. When at last he found it, it 
was lost again quickly, and lost and recovered, 
and again lost and again recovered, a hundred 
times or more. 

The night was very wild. The lamps under the 
wayside crosses were blown out; the roads were 
sheets of ice; the impenetrable darkness hid every 
trace of habitations; there was no living thing 
abroad. All the cattle were housed, and in all the 
huts and homesteads men and women rejoiced 
and feasted. There was only Patrasche out in the 
cruel cold — old and famished and full of pain, 
but with the strength and the patience of a great 
love to sustain him in his search. 

The trail of Nello’s steps, faint and obscure as 
it was under the new snow, went straightly along 
the accustomed tracks into Antwerp. It was 
past midnight when Patrasche traced it over the 
boundaries of the town and into the narrow, tor¬ 
tuous, gloomy streets. It was all quite dark in the 
town, save where some light gleamed ruddily 
through the crevices of house-shutters, or some 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 93 

group went homeward with lanterns chanting 
drinking-songs. The streets were all white with 
ice: the high walls and roofs loomed black against 
them. There was scarce a sound save the riot of 
the winds down the passages as they tossed the 
creaking signs and shook the tall lamp-irons. 

So many passers-by had trodden through and 
through the snow, so many diverse paths had 
crossed and recrossed each other, that the dog 
had a hard task to retain any hold on the track he 
followed. But he kept on his way, though the 
cold pierced him to the bone, and the jagged ice 
cut his feet, and the hunger in his body gnawed 
like a rat’s teeth. He kept on his way, a poor 
gaunt, shivering thing, and by long patience 
traced the steps he loved into the very heart of 
the burgh and up to the steps of the great cathe¬ 
dral. 

“He is gone to the things that he loved,” 
thought Patrasche: he could not understand, but 
he was full of sorrow and of pity for the art-pas¬ 
sion that to him was so incomprehensible and yet 
so sacred. 

The portals of the cathedral were unclosed after 
the midnight mass. Some heedlessness in the cus¬ 
todians, too eager to go home and feast or sleep, 
or too drowsy to know whether they turned the 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


94 

keys aright, had left one of the doors unlocked. 
By that accident the footfalls Patrasche sought 
had passed through into the building, leaving 
the white marks of snow upon the dark stone 
floor. By that slender white thread, frozen as it 
fell, he was guided through the intense silence, 
through the immensity of the vaulted space — 
guided straight to the gates of the chancel, and, 
stretched there upon the stones, he found Nello. 

He crept up and touched the face of the boy. 
“Didst thou dream that I should be faithless and 
forsake thee? I — a dog?” said that mute caress. 

The lad raised himself with a low cry and 
clasped him close. “Let us lie down and die to¬ 
gether,“ he murmured. “ Men have no need of us, 
and we are all alone.” 

In answer, Patrasche crept closer yet, and laid 
his head upon the young boy’s breast. The great 
tears stood in his brown, sad eyes: not for himself 
— for himself he was happy. 

They lay close together in the piercing cold. 
The blasts that blew over the Flemish dikes from 
the northern seas were like waves of ice, which 
froze every living thing they touched. The in¬ 
terior of the immense vault of stone in which they 
were was even more bitterly chill than the snow- 
covered plains without. Now and then a bat 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 


95 

moved in the shadows — now and then a gleam 
of light came on the ranks of carven figures. Un¬ 
der the Rubens they lay together quite still, and 
soothed almost into a dreaming slumber by the 
numbing narcotic of the cold. Together they 
dreamed of the old glad days when they had 
chased each other through the flowering grasses of 
the summer meadows, or sat hidden in the tall 
bulrushes by the water’s side, watching the boats 
go seaward in the sun. 

Suddenly through the darkness a great white 
radiance streamed through the vastness of the 
aisles; the moon, that was at her height, had 
broken through the clouds, the snow had ceased 
to fall, the light reflected from the snow without 
was clear as the light of dawn. It fell through the 
arches full upon the two pictures above, from 
which the boy on his entrance had flung back the 
veil: the Elevation and the Descent from the Cross 
were for one instant visible. 

Nello rose to his feet and stretched his arms to 
them: the tears of a passionate ecstasy glistened 
on the paleness of his face. “ I have seen them at 
last!” he cried aloud. u O God, it is enough!” 

His limbs failed under him, and he sank upon 
his knees, still gazing upward at the majesty that 
he adored. For a few brief moments the light illu- 


96 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

mined the divine visions that had been denied to 
him so long — light clear and sweet and strong as 
though it streamed from the throne of Heaven. 
Then suddenly it passed away: once more a great 
darkness covered the face of Christ. 

The arms of the boy drew close again the body 
of the dog. “We shall see His face — there ,” he 
murmured; “and He will not part us, I think.” 

On the morrow, by the chancel of the cathedral, 
the people of Antwerp found them both. They 
were both dead: the cold of the night had frozen 
into stillness alike the young life and the old. 
When the Christmas morning broke and the 
priests came to the temple, they saw them lying 
thus on the stones together. Above, the veils 
were drawn back from the great visions of Ru¬ 
bens and the fresh rays of the sunrise touched the 
thorn-crowned head of the Christ. 

As the day grew on, there came an old, hard- 
featured man who wept as women weep. “I 
was cruel to the lad,” he muttered, “and now I 
would have made amends — yea, to the half of 
my substance — and he should have been to me 
as a son.” 

There came also, as the day grew apace, a 
painter who had fame in the world, and who was 
liberal of hand and of spirit. “I seek one who 


A DOG OF FLANDERS 97 

should have had the prize yesterday had worth 
won,” he said to the people — “a boy of rare pro¬ 
mise and genius. An old woodcutter on a fallen 
tree at eventide — that was all his theme. But 
there was greatness for the future in it. I would 
fain find him, and take him with me and teach 
him Art.” 

And a little child with curling fair hair, sobbing 
bitterly as she clung to her father’s arm, cried 
aloud, “O Nello, come! We have all ready for 
thee. The Christ-child’s hands are full of gifts, 
and the old piper will play for us; and the mother 
says thou shalt stay by the hearth and burn nuts 
with us all the Noel week long — yes, even to the 
Feast of the Kings! And Patrasche will be so 
happy! O Nello, wake and come!” 

But the young pale face, turned upward to the 
light of the great Rubens with a smile upon its 
mouth, answered them all, “It is too late.” 

For the sweet, sonorous bells went ringing 
through the frost, and the sunlight shone upon 
the plains of snow, and the populace trooped gay 
and glad through the streets, but Nello and Pat¬ 
rasche no more asked charity at their hands. 
All they needed now Antwerp gave unbidden. 

Death had been more pitiful to them than 
longer life would have been. It had taken the one 


98 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

in the loyalty of love, and the other in the inno¬ 
cence of faith, from a world which for love has no 
recompense and for faith no fulfillment. 

All their lives they had been together, and in 
their deaths they were not divided; for when they 
were found the arms of the boy were folded too 
closely around the dog to be severed without vio¬ 
lence, and the people of their little village, con¬ 
trite and ashamed, implored a special grace for 
them, and, making them one grave, laid them to 
rest there side by side — forever! 


CHANCE 

Sixty miles from a homestead, straight as the 
crow can fly, 

We camped in the Deadwood foothills. Min¬ 
eral? Yes — and gold. 

Three of us in the outfit; the burro and Chance 
and I; 

Chance wasn’t more than a pup then, goin’ on 
two year old. 

Already he knew the music that a desert rattler 
makes 

When, glimmerin’ under a yucca, he’d seen ’em 
coil to spring; 

But he didn’t need no teachin’ to keep him away 
from snakes; 

You should seen his tail go under when he 
heard a rattler sing! 

Town-folks called him the “ Killer,” and I reckon 
that they was right; 

Deep in the chest, wolf-muscled, and quicker 
than fire in tow; 


100 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

But one of the kind that never went out of his way 
to fight, 

Though he’d tackle a corral of wild-cats if I 
gave him the word to go. 

There was more to him than his fightin’ — he was 
wise; it was right good fun 

To see him usin’ his head-piece when the sun 
was a-fryin’ eggs, 

Trailin’ along with the outfit and cheatin’ the 
desert sun 

By keepin’ into the shadow right dost to my 
burro’s legs. 

I knew that some day I’d lose him, for the desert 
she don’t wait long; — 

Hosses and dogs and humans, none of ’em get 
too old; 

Gold? Looks good in a story and sounds right 
good in a song, 

But the men that go out and get it — they 
know what they pay for gold! 

If I struck a ledge that showed me a million, — 
the whole thing mine, — 

I’d turn it over tomorrow (and never so much 
as glance 


CHANCE 


IOI 


At the papers the law-sharks frame up and hand 
you a pen to sign) 

For a look at my old side-pardner, the “ Killer,” 
that I called Chance. 

Why? Well, my eyes, one mornin’, was blinkin' 
to shake a dream, 

And Chance was sleepin’ beside me, breathin' 
it long and deep, 

When I saw a awful somethin' and I felt I was like 
to scream. . . . 

There was a big, brown rattler coiled in my 
arm, asleep. 

Move . . . and I knew he’d get me. Waitin', I 
held my breath, 

Feelin’ the sun get warmer, wonderin’ what to 
do, 

Try in’ to keep my eyes off that shinin’ and sudden 
death, 

When Chance he lifted his head up and slow 
come the rattler’s, too. 

“Take him!” I tried to whisper. Mebby I did. 
I know 

Chance’s neck was a-bristle and his eyes on the 
coiled-up snake- 


102 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

Its head was a-movin’ gentle — like weeds when 
the south winds blow — 

When Chance jumped in . . . the “Killer” ... 
Do that for a pardner’s sake? 

Td like to think that I'd do it! Up there in the 
far-off blue 

Old Marster He sits a-jedgin’ such things. Can 
you tell me why, 

Knowin’ what he had cornin’, he went at it 
fightin’ true; 

Tore that snake into ribbons, then crawled to 
the brush to die? 

Never come near me after; knew that he’d got 
his call; 

Howcome I went and shot him. God! I can 
see his eyes! 

See where those pointed shadows run down that 
canon wall? 

That there’s his tombstone, stranger, bigger 
than money buys. 


Henry Herbert Knibbs 


STICKEEN 

By 

John Muir 



I 









i 








. 













STICKEEN 

In the summer of 1880 I set out from Fort Wrangel 
in a canoe to continue the exploration of the icy 
region of southeastern Alaska, begun in the fall of 
1879. After the necessary provisions, blankets, 
etc., had been collected and stowed away, and my 
Indian crew were in their places ready to start, 
while a crowd of their relatives and friends on the 
wharf were bidding them good-by and good-luck, 
my companion, the Reverend S. H. Young, for 
whom we were waiting, at last came aboard, 
followed by a little black dog, that immediately 
made himself at home by curling up in a hollow 
among the baggage. I like dogs, but this one 
seemed so small and worthless that I objected to 
his going, and asked the missionary why he was 
taking him. 






106 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

“Such a little helpless creature will only be in 
the way,” I said; “you had better pass him up to 
the Indian boys on the wharf, to be taken home to 
play with the children. This trip is not likely to be 
good for toy-dogs. The poor silly thing will be in 
rain and snow for weeks or months, and will 
require care like a baby.” 

But his master assured me that he would be no 
trouble at all; that he was a perfect wonder of a 
dog, could endure cold and hunger like a bear, 
swim like a seal, and was wondrous wise and 
cunning, etc., making out a list of virtues to show 
he might be the most interesting member of the 
party. 

Nobody could hope to unravel the lines of his 
ancestry. In all the wonderfully mixed and varied 
dog-tribe I never saw any creature very much 
like him, though in some of his sly, soft, gliding 
motions and gestures he brought the fox to mind. 
He was short-legged and bunchy-bodied, and his 
hair, though smooth, was long and silky and slightly 
waved, so that when the wind was at his back it 
ruffled, making him look shaggy. At first sight his 
only noticeable feature was his fine tail, which was 
about as airy and shady as a squirrel’s, and was 
carried curling forward almost to his nose. On 
closer inspection you might notice his thin sensi- 


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STICKEEN 


















STICKEEN 


107 

tive ears, and sharp eyes with cunning tan-spots 
above them. Mr. Young told me that when the 
little fellow was a pup about the size of a woodrat 
he was presented to his wife by an Irish prospector 
at Sitka, and that on his arrival at Fort Wrangel 
he was adopted with enthusiasm by the Stickeen 
Indians as a sort of new good-luck totem, was 
named “Stickeen” for the tribe, and became a 
universal favorite; petted, protected, and admired 
wherever he went, and regarded as a mysterious 
fountain of wisdom. 

On our trip he soon proved himself a queer 
character — odd, concealed, independent, keep¬ 
ing invincibly quiet, and doing many little puz¬ 
zling things that piqued my curiosity. As we sailed 
week after week through the long intricate chan¬ 
nels and inlets among the innumerable islands 
and mountains of the coast, he spent most of the 
dull days in sluggish ease, motionless, and ap¬ 
parently as unobserving as if in deep sleep. But I 
discovered that somehow he always knew what 
was going on. When the Indians were about to 
shoot at ducks or seals, or when anything along 
the shore was exciting our attention, he would rest 
his chin on the edge of the canoe and calmly look 
out like a dreamy-eyed tourist. And when he 
heard us talking about making a landing, he im- 


io8 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

mediately roused himself to see what sort of a place 
we were coming to, and made ready to jump over¬ 
board and swim ashore as soon as the canoe neared 
the beach. Then, with a vigorous shake to get rid 
of the brine in his hair, he ran into the woods to 
hunt small game. But though always the first out 
of the canoe, he was always the last to get into it. 
When we were ready to start he could never be 
found, and refused to come to our call. We soon 
found out, however, that though we could not see 
him at such times, he saw us, and from the cover 
of the briers and huckleberry bushes in the fringe 
of the woods was watching the canoe with wary 
eye. For as soon as we were fairly off he came 
trotting down the beach, plunged into the surf, 
and swam after us, knowing well that we would 
cease rowing and take him in. When the contrary 
little vagabond came alongside, he was lifted by the 
neck, held at arm’s length a moment to drip, and 
dropped aboard. We tried to cure him of this trick 
by compelling him to swim a long way, as if we 
had a mind to abandon him; but this did no good: 
the longer the swim the better he seemed to like it. 

Though capable of great idleness, he never failed 
to be ready for all sorts of adventures and excur¬ 
sions. One pitch-dark rainy night we landed about 
ten o’clock at the mouth of a salmon stream when 


STICKEEN 


109 

the water was phosphorescent. The salmon were 
running, and the myriad fins of the onrushing 
multitude were churning all the stream into a 
silvery glow, wonderfully beautiful and impressive 
in the ebon darkness. To get a good view of the 
show I set out with one of the Indians and sailed 
up through the midst of it to the foot of a rapid 
about half a mile from camp, where the swift 
current dashing over rocks made the luminous 
glow most glorious. Happening to look back down 
the stream, while the Indian was catching a few of 
the struggling fish, I saw a long spreading fan of 
light like the tail of a comet, which we thought 
must be made by some big strange animal that 
was pursuing us. On it came with its magnificent 
train, until we imagined we could see the monster’s 
head and eyes; but it was only Stickeen, who, find¬ 
ing I had left the camp, came swimming after me 
to see what was up. 

When we camped early, the best hunter of the 
crew usually went to the woods for a deer, and 
Stickeen was sure to be at his heels, provided I had 
not gone out. For, strange to say, though I never 
carried a gun, he always followed me, forsaking the 
hunter and even his master to share my wander¬ 
ings. The days that were too stormy for sailing I 
spent in the woods, or on the adjacent mountains, 


no 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


wherever my studies called me; and Stickeen al¬ 
ways insisted on going with me, however wild the 
weather, gliding like a fox through dripping huckle¬ 
berry bushes and thorny tangles of panax and 
rubus, scarce stirring their rain-laden leaves; 
wading and wallowing through snow, swimming 
icy streams, skipping over logs and rocks and the 
crevasses of glaciers with the patience and en¬ 
durance of a determined mountaineer, never tir¬ 
ing or getting discouraged. Once he followed me 
over a glacier the surface of which was so crusty 
and rough that it cut his feet until every step was 
marked with blood; but he trotted on with Indian 
fortitude until I noticed his red track, and, taking 
pity on him, made him a set of moccasins out of a 
handkerchief. However great his troubles he 
never asked help or made any complaint, as if, like 
a philosopher, he had learned that without hard 
work and suffering there could be no pleasure 
worth having. 

Yet none of us was able to make out what 
Stickeen was really good for. He seemed to meet 
danger and hardships without anything like 
reason, insisted on having his own way, never 
obeyed an order, and the hunter could never set 
him on anything, or make him fetch the birds he 
shot. His equanimity was so steady it seemed due 


STICKEEN 


hi 


to want of feeling; ordinary storms were pleasures 
to him, and as for mere rain, he flourished in it like 
a vegetable. No matter what advances you might 
make, scarce a glance or a tail-wag would you get 
for your pains. But though he was apparently as 
cold as a glacier and about as impervious to fun, 
I tried hard to make his acquaintance, guessing 
there must be something worth while hidden 
beneath so much courage, endurance, and love 
of wild-weathery adventure. No superannuated 
mastiff or bulldog grown old in office surpassed 
this fluffy midget in stoic dignity. He sometimes 
reminded me of a small, squat, unshakable desert 
cactus. For he never displayed a single trace of 
the merry, tricksy, elfish fun of the terriers and 
collies that we all know, nor of their touching affec¬ 
tion and devotion. Like children, most small dogs 
beg to be loved and allowed to love; but Stickeen 
seemed a very Diogenes, asking only to be let 
al©ne: a true child of the wilderness, holding the 
even tenor of his hidden life with the silence and 
serenity of nature. His strength of character lay 
in his eyes. They looked as old as the hills, and as 
young, and as wild. I never tired of looking into 
them: it was like looking into a landscape; but 
they were small and rather deep-set, and had no 
explaining lines around them to give out particu- 


112 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

lars. I was accustomed to look into the faces of 
plants and animals, and I watched the little 
sphinx more and more keenly as an interesting 
study. But there is no estimating the wit and 
wisdom concealed and latent in our lower fellow 
mortals until made manifest by profound experi¬ 
ences ; for it is through suffering that dogs as well 
as saints are developed and made perfect. 

After exploring the Sumdum and Tahkoo fiords 
and their glaciers, we sailed through Stephen’s 
Passage into Lynn Canal and thence through Icy 
Strait into Cross Sound, searching for unexplored 
inlets leading toward the great fountain ice-fields of 
the Fairweather Range. Here, while the tide was 
in our favor, we were accompanied by a fleet of 
icebergs drifting out to the ocean from Glacier 
Bay. Slowly we paddled around Vancouver’s 
Point, Wimbledon, our frail canoe tossed like a 
feather on the massive heaving swells coming 
in past Cape Spenser. For miles the sound is 
bounded by precipitous mural cliffs, which, lashed 
with wave-spray and their heads hidden in clouds, 
looked terribly threatening and stern. Had our 
canoe been crushed or upset we could have made 
no landing here, for the cliffs, as high as those of 
Yosemite, sink sheer into deep water. Eagerly we 
scanned the wall on the north side for the first 


STICKEEN 


113 

sign of an opening fiord or harbor, all of us anxious 
except Stickeen, who dozed in peace or gazed 
dreamily at the tremendous precipices when he 
heard us talking about them. At length we made 
the joyful discovery of the mouth of the inlet now 
called “Taylor Bay,” and about five o’clock 
reached the head of it and encamped in a spruce 
grove near the front of a large glacier. 

While camp was being made, Joe the hunter 
climbed the mountain wall on the east side of the 
fiord in pursuit of wild goats, while Mr. Young 
and I went to the glacier. We found that it is 
separated from the waters of the inlet by a tide- 
washed moraine, and extends, an abrupt barrier, 
all the way across from wall to wall of the inlet, 
a distance of about three miles. But our most 
interesting discovery was that it had recently 
advanced, though again slightly receding. A 
portion of the terminal moraine had been ploughed 
up and shoved forward, uprooting and over¬ 
whelming the woods on the east side. Many of the 
trees were down and buried, or nearly so, others 
were leaning away from the ice-cliffs, ready to fall, 
and some stood erect, with the bottom of the ice 
plough still beneath their roots and its lofty 
crystal spires towering high above their tops. The 
spectacle presented by these century-old trees 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


11.4 

standing close beside a spiry wall of ice, with their 
branches almost touching it, was most novel and 
striking. And when I climbed around the front, 
and a little way up the west side of the glacier, I 
found that it had swelled and increased in height 
and width in accordance with its advance, and 
carried away the outer ranks of trees on its bank. 

On our way back to camp after these first ob¬ 
servations I planned a far-and-wide excursion for 
the morrow. I awoke early, called not only by the 
glacier, which had been on my mind all night, but 
by a grand flood-storm. The wind was blowing a 
gale from the north and the rain was flying with 
the clouds in a wide passionate horizontal flood, as 
if it were all passing over the country instead of 
falling on it. The main perennial streams were 
booming high above their banks, and hundreds of 
new ones, roaring like the sea, almost covered the 
lofty gray walls of the inlet with white cascades 
and falls. I had intended making a cup of coffee and 
getting something like a breakfast before starting, 
but when I heard the storm and looked out I made 
haste to join it; for many of Nature’s finest lessons 
are to be found in her storms, and if careful to keep 
in right relations with them, we may go safely 
abroad with them, rejoicing in the grandeur and 
beautv of their works and ways, and chanting with 


STICKEEN 115 

the old Norsemen, “The blast of the tempest aids 
our oars, the hurricane is our servant and drives us 
whither we wish to go.” So, omitting breakfast, I 
put a piece of bread in my pocket and hurried 
away. 

Mr. Young and the Indians were asleep, and so, 
I hoped, was Stickeen; but I had not gone a dozen 
rods before he left his bed in the tent and came 
boring through the blast after me. That a man 
should welcome storms for their exhilarating music 
and motion, and go forth to see God making land¬ 
scapes, is reasonable enough; but what fascination 
could there be in such tremendous weather for a 
dog? Surely nothing akin to human enthusiasm 
for scenery or geology. Anyhow, on he came, 
breakfastless, through the choking blast. I stopped 
and did my best to turn him back. “ Now don’t,” 
I said, shouting to make myself heard in the 
storm, “now don’t, Stickeen. What has got into 
your queer noddle now? You must be daft. This 
wild day has nothing for you. There is no game 
abroad, nothing but weather. Go back to camp 
and keep warm, get a good breakfast with your 
master, and be sensible for once. I can’t carry you 
all day or feed you, and this storm will kill you.” 

But Nature, it seems, was at the bottom of the 
affair, and she gains her ends with dogs as well as 


n6 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

with men, making us do as she likes, shoving and 
pulling us along her ways, however rough, all but 
killing us at times in getting her lessons driven 
hard home. After I had stopped again and again, 
shouting good warning advice, I saw that he was 
not to be shaken off; as well might the earth try to 
shake off the moon. I had once led his master into 
trouble, when he fell on one of the topmost jags of 
a mountain and dislocated his arm; now the turn 
of his humble companion was coming. The pitiful 
little wanderer just stood there in the wind, 
drenched and blinking, saying doggedly, “Where 
thou goest I will go.” So at last I told him to 
come on if he must, and gave him a piece of the 
bread I had in my pocket; then we struggled on 
together, and thus began the most memorable of 
all my wild days. 

The level flood, driving hard in our faces, 
thrashed and washed us wildly until we got into 
the shelter of a grove on the east side of the glacier 
near the front, where we stopped awhile for breath 
and to listen and look out. The exploration of the 
glacier was my main object, but the wind was too 
high to allow excursions over its open surface, 
where one might be dangerously shoved while 
balancing for a jump on the brink of a crevasse. 
In the mean time the storm was a fine study. Here 


STICKEEN 


ii 7 

the end of the glacier, descending an abrupt swell 
of resisting rock about five hundred feet high, 
leans forward and falls in ice cascades. And as 
the storm came down the glacier from the north, 
Stickeen and I were beneath the main current of 
the blast, while favorably located to see and hear 
it. What a psalm the storm was singing, and how 
fresh the smell of the washed earth and leaves, and 
how sweet the still small voices of the storm! De¬ 
tached wafts and swirls were coming through the 
woods, with music from the leaves and branches 
and furrowed boles, and even from the splintered 
rocks and ice-crags overhead, many of the tones 
soft and low and flute-like, as if each leaf and tree, 
crag and spire were a tuned reed. A broad tor¬ 
rent, draining the side of the glacier, now swollen 
by scores of new streams from the mountains, 
was rolling boulders along its rocky channel, 
with thudding, bumping, muffled sounds, rush¬ 
ing towards the bay with tremendous energy, as 
if in haste to get out of the mountains; the waters 
above and beneath calling to each other, and all 
to the ocean, their home. 

Looking southward from our shelter, we had 
this great torrent and the forested mountain wall 
above it on our left, the spiry ice-crags on our 
right, and smooth gray gloom ahead. I tried to 


ii8 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

draw the marvelous scene in my note-book, but 
the rain blurred the page in spite of all my pains to 
shelter it, and the sketch was almost worthless. 
When the wind began to abate, I traced the east 
side of the glacier. All the trees standing on the 
edge of the woods were barked and bruised, show¬ 
ing high-ice mark in a very telling way, while tens 
of thousands of those that had stood for centuries 
on the bank of the glacier farther out lay crushed 
and being crushed. In many places I could see 
down fifty feet or so beneath the margin of the 
glacier-mill, where trunks from one to two feet in 
diameter were being ground to pulp against out¬ 
standing rock-ribs and bosses of the bank. 

About three miles above the front of the glacier I 
climbed to the surface of it by means of axe-steps 
made easy for Stickeen. As far as the eye could 
reach, the level, or nearly level, glacier stretched 
away indefinitely beneath the gray sky, a seem¬ 
ingly boundless prairie of ice. The rain continued, 
and grew colder, which I did not mind, but a dim 
snowy look in the drooping clouds made me 
hesitate about venturing far from land. No trace 
of the west shore was visible, and in case the clouds 
should settle and give snow, or the wind again be¬ 
come violent, I feared getting caught in a tangle 
of crevasses. Snow-crystals, the flowers of the 


STICKEEN 


119 

mountain clouds, are frail, beautiful things, but 
terrible when flying on storm-winds in darkening, 
benumbing swarms or when welded together into 
glaciers full of deadly crevasses. Watching the 
weather, I sauntered about on the crystal sea. For 
a mile or two out I found the ice remarkably safe. 
The marginal crevasses were mostly narrow, while 
the few wider ones were easily avoided by passing 
around them, and the clouds began to open here 
and there. 

Thus encouraged, I at last pushed out for the 
other side; for Nature can make us do anything 
she likes. At first we made rapid progress, and the 
sky was not very threatening, while I took bear¬ 
ings occasionally with a pocket compass to enable 
me to find my way back more surely in case the 
storm should become blinding; but the structure 
lines of the glacier were my main guide. Toward 
the west side we came to a closely crevassed section 
in which we had to make long, narrow tacks and 
doublings, tracing the edges of tremendous trans¬ 
verse and longitudinal crevasses, many of which 
were from twenty to thirty feet wide, and perhaps 
a thousand feet deep — beautiful and awful. In 
working a way through them I was severely cau¬ 
tious, but Stickeen came on as unhesitating as 
the flying clouds. The widest crevasse that I 


120 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


could jump he would leap without so much as halt¬ 
ing to take a look at it. The weather was now 
making quick changes, scattering bits of dazzling 
brightness through the wintry gloom; at rare 
intervals, when the sun broke forth wholly free, 
the glacier was seen from shore to shore with a 
bright array of encompassing mountains partly re¬ 
vealed, wearing the clouds as garments, while the 
prairie bloomed and sparkled with irised light from 
myriads of washed crystals. Then suddenly all 
the glorious show would be darkened and blotted 
out. 

Stickeen seemed to care for none of these things, 
bright or dark, nor for the crevasses, wells, mou- 
lins, or swift flashing streams into which he 
might fall. The little adventurer was only about 
two years old, yet nothing seemed novel to him, 
nothing daunted him. He showed neither caution 
nor curiosity, wonder nor fear, but bravely trotted 
on as if glaciers were playgrounds. His stout, muf¬ 
fled body seemed all one skipping muscle, and it 
was truly wonderful to see how swiftly and to all 
appearance heedlessly he flashed across nerve-try¬ 
ing chasms six or eight feet wide. His courage was 
so unwavering that it seemed to be due to dullness 
of perception, as if he were only blindly bold; and 
I kept warning him to be careful. For we had been 


STICKEEN 121 

close companions on so many wilderness trips that 
I had formed the habit of talking to him as if he 
were a boy and understood every word. 

We gained the west shore in about three hours; 
the width of the glacier here being about seven 
miles. Then I pushed northward in order to see as 
far back as possible into the fountains of the Fair- 
weather Mountains, in case the clouds should rise. 
The walking was easy along the margin of the 
forest, which, of course, like that on the other side, 
had been invaded and crushed by the swollen, 
overflowing glacier. In an hour or so, after passing 
a massive headland, we came suddenly on a branch 
of the glacier, which, in the form of a magnificent 
ice-cascade two miles wide, was pouring over the 
rim of the main basin in a westerly direction, its 
surface broken into wave-shaped blades and shat¬ 
tered blocks, suggesting the wildest updashing, 
heaving, plunging motion of a great river cataract. 
Tracing it down three or four miles, I found that it 
discharged into a lake, filling it with icebergs. 

I would gladly have followed the lake outlet to 
tide-water, but the day was already far spent, and 
the threatening sky called for haste on the return 
trip to get off the ice before dark. I decided there¬ 
fore to go no farther, and, after taking a general 
view of the wonderful region, turned back, hoping 


122 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


to see it again under more favorable auspices. We 
made good speed up the canon of the great ice- 
torrent, and out on the main glacier until we had 
left the west shore about two miles behind us. 
Here we got into a difficult network of crevasses, 
the gathering clouds began to drop misty fringes, 
and soon the dreaded snow came flying thick and 
fast. I now began to feel anxious about finding a 
way in the blurring storm. Stickeen showed no 
trace of fear. He was still the same silent, able 
little hero. I noticed, however, that after the 
storm-darkness came on he kept close up behind 
me. The snow urged us to make still greater haste, 
but at the same time hid our way. I pushed on as 
best I could, jumping innumerable crevasses, and 
for every hundred rods or so of direct advance 
traveling a mile in doubling up and down in the 
turmoil of chasms and dislocated ice-blocks. After 
an hour or two of this work we came to a series of 
longitudinal crevasses of appalling width, and al¬ 
most straight and regular in trend, like immense 
furrows. These I traced with firm nerve, excited 
and strengthened by the danger, making wide 
jumps, poising cautiously on their dizzy edges after 
cutting hollows for my feet before making the 
spring, to avoid possible slipping or any uncertainty 
on the farther sides, where only one trial is granted 


STICKEEN 


123 

— exercise at once frightful and inspiring. Stickeen 
followed seemingly without effort. 

Many a mile we thus traveled, mostly up and 
down, making but little real headway in crossing, 
running instead of walking most of the time as the 
danger of being compelled to spend the night on 
the glacier became threatening. Stickeen seemed 
able for anything. Doubtless we could have 
weathered the storm for one night, dancing on a 
flat spot to keep from freezing, and I faced the 
threat without feeling anything like despair; but 
we were hungry and wet, and the wind from the 
mountains was still thick with snow and bitterly 
cold, so of course that night would have seemed a 
very long one. I could not see far enough through 
the blurring snow to judge in which general 
direction the least dangerous route lay, while the 
few dim, momentary glimpses I caught of moun¬ 
tains through rifts in the flying clouds were far 
from encouraging either as weather signs or as 
guides. I had simply to grope my way from cre¬ 
vasse to crevasse, holding a general direction by 
the ice-structure, which was not to be seen every¬ 
where, and partly by the wind. Again and again I 
was put to my mettle, but Stickeen followed easily, 
his nerve apparently growing more unflinching as 
the danger increased. So it always is with moun- 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


124 

taineers when hard beset. Running hard and 
jumping, holding every minute of the remaining 
daylight, poor as it was, precious, we doggedly 
persevered and tried to hope that every difficult 
crevasse we overcame would prove to be the last 
of its kind. But on the contrary, as we advanced 
they became more deadly trying. 

At length our way was barred by a very wide 
and straight crevasse, which I traced rapidly 
northward a mile or so without finding a crossing 
or hope of one; then down the glacier about as far, 
to where it united with another uncrossable cre¬ 
vasse. In all this distance of perhaps two miles 
there was only one place where I could possibly 
jump it, but the width of this jump was the ut¬ 
most I dared attempt, while the danger of slipping 
on the farther side was so great that I was loath to 
try it. Furthermore, the side I was on was about 
a foot higher thap the other, and even with this 
advantage the crevasse seemed dangerously wide. 
One is liable to underestimate the width of 
crevasses where the magnitudes in general are 
great. I therefore stared at this one mighty keenly, 
estimating its width and the shape of the edge on 
the farther side, until I thought that I could jump 
it if necessary, but that in case I should be com¬ 
pelled to jump back from the lower side I might 


STICKEEN 


125 

fail. Now, a cautious mountaineer seldom takes 
a step on unknown ground which seems at all 
dangerous that he cannot retrace in case he should 
be stopped by unseen obstacles ahead. This is the 
rule of mountaineers who live long, and, though in 
haste, I compelled myself to sit down and calmly 
deliberate before I broke it. 

Retracing my devious path in imagination as if 
it were drawn on a chart, I saw that I was recross¬ 
ing the glacier a mile or two farther up stream than 
the course pursued in the morning, and that I was 
now entangled in a section I had not before seen. 
Should I risk this dangerous jump, or try to regain 
the woods on the west shore, make a fire, and have 
only hunger to endure while waiting for a new day? 
I had already crossed so broad a stretch of danger¬ 
ous ice that I saw it would be difficult to get back 
to the woods through the storm, before dark, and 
the attempt would most likely result in a dismal 
night-dance on the glacier; while just beyond the 
present barrier the surface seemed more promising, 
and the east shore was now perhaps about as near 
as the west. I was therefore eager to go on. But 
this wide jump was a dreadful obstacle. 

At length, because of the dangers already be¬ 
hind me, I determined to venture against those 
that might be ahead, jumped and landed well, but 


126 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


with so little to spare that I more than ever dreaded 
being compelled to take that jump back from the 
lower side. Stickeen followed, making nothing of 
it, and we ran eagerly forward, hoping we were 
leaving all our troubles behind. But within the 
distance of a few hundred yards we were stopped 
by the widest crevasse yet encountered. Of course 
I made haste to explore it, hoping all might yet 
be remedied by finding a bridge or a way around 
either end. About three fourths of a mile upstream 
I found that it united with the one we had just 
crossed, as I feared it would. Then, tracing it 
down, I found it joined the same crevasse at the 
lower end also, maintaining throughout its whole 
course a width of forty to fifty feet. Thus to my 
dismay I discovered that we were on a narrow 
island about two miles long, with two barely 
possible ways of escape: one back by the way we 
came, the other ahead by an almost inaccessible 
sliver-bridge that crossed the great crevasse from 
near the middle of it! 

After this nerve-trying discovery I ran back 
to the sliver-bridge and cautiously examined it. 
Crevasses, caused by strains from variations in the 
rate of motion of different parts of the glacier and 
convexities in the channel, are mere cracks when 
they first open, so narrow as hardly to admit the 


STICKEEN 127 

blade of a pocket-knife, and gradually widen 
according to the extent of the strain and the 
depth of the glacier. Now some of these cracks 
are interrupted, like the cracks in wood, and in 
opening, the strip of ice between overlapping ends 
is dragged out, and may maintain a continuous 
connection between the sides, just as the two sides 
of a slivered crack in wood that is being split are 
connected. Some crevasses remain open for 
months or even years, and by the melting of their 
sides continue to increase in width long after the 
opening strain has ceased; while the sliver-bridges, 
level on top at first and perfectly safe, are at 
length melted to thin, vertical, knife-edged blades, 
the upper portion being most exposed to the 
weather; and since the exposure is greatest in the 
middle, they at length curve downward like the ca¬ 
bles of suspension bridges. This one was evidently 
very old, for it had been weathered and wasted 
until it was the most dangerous and inaccessible 
that ever lay in my way. The width of the crevasse 
was here about fifty feet, and the sliver crossing 
diagonally was about seventy feet long; its thin 
knife-edge near the middle was depressed twenty- 
five or thirty feet below the level of the glacier, and 
the upcurving ends were attached to the sides 
eight or ten feet below the brink. Getting down 


128 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


the nearly vertical wall to the end of the sliver and 
up the other side were the main difficulties, and 
they seemed all but insurmountable. Of the many 
perils encountered in my years of wandering on 
mountains and glaciers none seemed so plain and 
stern and merciless as this. And it was presented 
when we were wet to the skin and hungry, the sky 
dark with quick driving snow, and the night near. 
But we were forced to face it. It was a tremendous 
necessity. 

Beginning, not immediately above the sunken 
end of the bridge, but a little to one side, I cut a 
deep hollow on the brink for my knees to rest in. 
Then, leaning over, with my short-handled axe I 
cut a step sixteen or eighteen inches below, which 
on account of the sheerness of the wall was 
necessarily shallow. That step, however, was well 
made; its floor sloped slightly inward and formed a 
good hold for my heels. Then, slipping cautiously 
upon it, and crouching as low as possible, with my 
left side toward the wall, I steadied myself against 
the wind with my left hand in a slight notch, while 
with the right I cut other similar steps and notches 
in succession, guarding against losing balance by 
glinting of the axe, or by wind-gusts, for life and 
death were in every stroke and in the niceness of 
finish of every foothold. 


STICKEEN 


129 

After the end of the bridge was reached I chipped 
it down until I had made a level platform six or 
eight inches wide, and it was a trying thing to 
poise on this little slippery platform while bend¬ 
ing over to get safely astride of the sliver. Cross¬ 
ing was then comparatively easy by chipping off 
the sharp edge with short, careful strokes, and 
hitching forward an inch or two at a time, keep¬ 
ing my balance with my knees pressed against the 
sides. The tremendous abyss on either hand I 
studiously ignored. To me the edge of that blue 
sliver was then all the world. But the most trying 
part of the adventure, after working my way across 
inch by inch and chipping another small platform, 
was to rise from the safe position astride and to cut 
a step-ladder in the nearly vertical face of the wall 
•— chipping, climbing, holding on with feet and 
fingers in mere notches. At such times one’s whole 
body is eye, and common skill and fortitude are 
replaced by power beyond our call or knowledge. 
Never before had I been so long under deadly 
strain. How I got up that cliff I never could tell. 
The thing seemed to have been done by somebody 
else. I never have held death in contempt, though 
in the course of my explorations I have oftentimes 
felt that to meet one’s fate on a noble mountain, 
or in the heart of a glacier, would be blessed as 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


130 

compared with death from disease, or from some 
shabby lowland accident. But the best death, 
quick and crystal-pure, set so glaringly open be¬ 
fore us, is hard enough to face, even though we feel 
gratefully sure that we have already had happiness 
enough for a dozen lives. 

But poor Stickeen, the wee, hairy sleekit beastie, 
think of him! When I had decided to dare the 
bridge, and while I was on my knees chipping a 
hollow on the rounded brow above it, he came 
behind me, pushed his head past my shoulder, 
looked down and across, scanned the sliver and its 
approaches with his mysterious eyes, then looked 
me in the face with a startled air of surprise and 
concern, and began to mutter and whine; saying as 
plainly as if speaking with words, “ Surely, you are 
not going into that awful place.” This was the first 
time I had seen him gaze deliberately into a 
crevasse, or into my face with an eager, speaking, 
troubled look. That he should have recognized 
and appreciated the danger at the first glance 
showed wonderful sagacity. Never before had the 
daring midget seemed to know that ice was slippery 
or that there was any such thing as danger any¬ 
where. His looks and tones of voice when he 
began to complain and speak his fears were so 
human that I unconsciously talked to him in sym- 


STICKEEN 


131 

pathy as I would to a frightened boy, and in trying 
to calm his fears perhaps in some measure moder¬ 
ated my own. “ Hush your fears, my boy,” I said, 
“we will get across safe, though it is not going to 
be easy. No right way is easy in this rough world. 
We must risk our lives to save them. At the worst 
we can only slip, and then how grand a grave we 
will have, and by and by our nice bones will do 
good in the terminal moraine.” 

But my sermon was far from reassuring him: 
he began to cry, and after taking another piercing 
look at the tremendous gulf, ran away in desperate 
excitement, seeking some other crossing. By the 
time he got back, baffled of course, I had made a 
step or two. I dared not look back, but he made 
himself heard; and when he saw that I was certainly 
bent on crossing he cried aloud in despair. The 
danger was enough to daunt anybody, but it 
seems wonderful that he should have been able to 
weigh and appreciate it so justly. No mountaineer 
could have seen it more quickly or judged it more 
wisely, discriminating between real and apparent 
peril. 

When I gained the other side, he screamed 
louder than ever, and after running back and forth 
in vain search for a way of escape, he would return 
to the brink of the crevasse above the bridge, 


132 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

moaning and wailing as if in the bitterness of death. 
Could this be the silent, philosophic Stickeen? I 
shouted encouragement, telling him the bridge 
was not so bad as it looked, that I had left it flat 
and safe for his feet, and he could walk it easily. 
But he was afraid to try. Strange so small an 
animal should be capable of such big, wise fears. I 
called again and again in a reassuring tone to 
come on and fear nothing; that he could come if he 
would only try. He would hush for a moment, 
look down again at the bridge, and shout his un¬ 
shakable conviction that he could never, never 
come that way; then lie back in despair, as if howl¬ 
ing, “O-o-oh! what a place! No-o-o, I can never 
go-o-o down there!” His natural composure and 
courage had vanished utterly in a tumultuous 
storm of fear. Had the danger been less, his distress 
would have seemed ridiculous. But in this dismal, 
merciless abyss lay the shadow of death, and his 
heartrending cries might well have called Heaven 
to his help. Perhaps they did. So hidden before, 
he was now transparent, and one could see the 
workings of his heart and mind like the move¬ 
ments of a clock out of its case. His voice and 
gestures, hopes and fears, were so perfectly human 
that none could mistake them; while he seemed to 
understand every word of mine. I was troubled at 


STICKEEN 133 

the thought of having to leave him out all night, 
and of the danger of not finding him in the morn¬ 
ing. It seemed impossible to get him to venture. 
To compel him to try through fear of being 
abandoned, I started off as if leaving him to his fate, 
and disappeared back of a hummock; but this did 
no good; he only lay down and moaned in utter 
hopeless misery. So, after hiding a few minutes, I 
went back to the brink of the crevasse and in a 
severe tone of voice shouted across to him that now 
I must certainly leave him, I could wait no longer, 
and that, if he would not come, all I could pro¬ 
mise was that I would return to seek him next 
day. I warned him that if he went back to the 
woods the wolves would kill him, and finished by 
urging him once more by words and gestures to 
come on, come on. 

He knew very well what I meant, and at last, 
with the courage of despair, hushed and breathless, 
he crouched down on the brink in the hollow I had 
made for my knees, pressed his body against the 
ice as if trying to get the advantage of the friction 
of every hair, gazed into the first step, put his little 
feet together and slid them slowly, slowly over the 
edge and down into it, bunching all four in it and 
almost standing on his head. Then, without lift¬ 
ing his feet, as well as I could see through the snow, 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


134 

he slowly worked them over the edge of the step 
and down into the next and the next in succession 
in the same way, and gained the end of the bridge. 
Then, lifting his feet with the regularity and slow¬ 
ness of the vibrations of a seconds pendulum, as 
if counting and measuring one-two-three , holding 
himself steady against the gusty wind, and giving 
separate attention to each little step, he gained the 
foot of the cliff, while I was on my knees leaning 
over to give him a lift should he succeed in getting 
within reach of my arm. Here he halted in dead 
silence, and it was here I feared he might fail, for 
dogs are poor climbers. I had no cord. If I had had 
one, I would have dropped a noose over his head 
and hauled him up. But while I was thinking 
whether an available cord might be made out. of 
clothing, he was looking keenly into the series of 
notched steps and finger-holds I had made, as if 
counting them, and fixing the position of each one 
of them in his mind. Then suddenly up he came 
in a springy rush, hooking his paws into the steps 
and notches so quickly that I could not see how it 
was done, and whizzed past my head, safe at last! 

And now came a scene! “Well done, well done, 
little boy! Brave boy!” I cried, trying to catch and 
caress him; but he would not be caught. Never be¬ 
fore or since have I seen anything like so passionate 


STICKEEN 


135 

a revulsion from the depths of despair to exultant, 
triumphant, uncontrollable joy. He flashed and 
darted hither and thither as if fairly demented, 
screaming and shouting, swirling round and round 
in giddy loops and circles like a leaf in a whirlwind, 
lying down, and rolling over and over, sidewise and 
heels over head, and pouring forth a tumultuous 
flood of hysterical cries and sobs and gasping 
mutterings. When I ran up to him to shake him, 
fearing he might die of joy, he flashed off two or 
three hundred yards, his feet in a mist of motion ; 
then, turning suddenly, came back in a wild rush 
and launched himself at my face, almost knocking 
me down, all the time screeching and screaming 
and shouting as if saying, “Saved! saved! saved!” 
Then away again, dropping suddenly at times 
with his feet in the air, trembling and fairly sob¬ 
bing. Such passionate emotion was enough to kill 
him. Moses’ stately song of triumph after escap¬ 
ing the Egyptians and the Red Sea was nothing to 
it. Who could have guessed the capacity of the 
dull, enduring little fellow for all that most stirs 
this mortal frame? Nobody could have helped 
crying with him! 

But there is nothing like work for toning down 
excessive fear or joy. So I ran ahead, calling him 
in as gruff a voice as I could command to come on 


136 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

and stop his nonsense, for we had far to go and it 
would soon be dark. Neither of us feared another 
trial like this. Heaven would surely count one 
enough for a lifetime. The ice ahead was gashed 
by thousands of crevasses, but they were common 
ones. The joy of deliverance burned in us like fire, 
and we ran without fatigue, every muscle with 
immense rebound glorying in its strength. Stick- 
een flew across everything in his way, and not till 
dark did he settle into his normal fox-like trot. At 
last the cloudy mountains came in sight, and we 
soon felt the solid rock beneath our feet, and were 
safe. Then came weakness. Danger had vanished, 
and so had our strength. We tottered down the 
lateral moraine in the dark, over boulders and 
tree trunks, through the bushes and devil-club 
thickets of the grove where we had sheltered our¬ 
selves in the morning, and across the level mud- 
slope of the terminal moraine. We reached camp 
about ten o’clock, and found a big fire and a big 
supper. A party of Hoona Indians had visited Mr. 
Young, bringing a gift of porpoise meat and wild 
strawberries, and Hunter Joe had brought in a 
wild goat. But we lay down, too tired to eat much, 
and soon fell into a troubled sleep. The man who 
said, “The harder the toil, the sweeter the rest,” 
never was profoundly tired. Stickeen kept spring- 


STIC KEEN 


137 

mg up and muttering in his sleep, no doubt dream¬ 
ing that he was still on the brink of the crevasse; 
and so did I, that night and many others long after¬ 
ward. when I was overtired. 

Thereafter Stickeen was a changed dog. During 
the rest of the trip, instead of holding aloof, he al¬ 
ways lay by my side, tried to keep me constantly 
in sight, and would hardly accept a morsel of food, 
however tempting, from any hand but mine. At 
night, when ah was quiet about the camp-fire, he 
would come to me and rest his head on my knee 
with a look of devotion as if I were his god. And 
often as he caught my eye he seemed to be trying 
to say. ‘‘Wasn’t that an awful time we had to¬ 
gether on the glacier? ” 

Nothing in after years has dimmed that Alaska 
storm-day. As I write it all comes rushing and 
roaring to mind as if I were again in the heart of it. 
Again I see the gray dying clouds with their rain- 
doods and snow, the ice-cliffs towering above 
the shrinking forest, the majestic ice-cascade, the 
vast glacier outspread before its white mountain 
fountains, and in the heart of it the tremendous 
crevasse — emblem of the valley of the shadow of 
death — low douds trailing over it. the snow fall¬ 
ing into it: and on its brink I see little Stickeen, 



138 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

and I hear his cries for help and his shouts of 
joy. I have known many dogs, and many a story I 
could tell of their wisdom and devotion; but to 
none do I owe so much as to Stickeen. At first the 
least promising and least known of my dog-friends, 
he suddenly became the best known of them all. 
Our storm-battle for life brought him to light, and 
through him as through a window I have ever 
since been looking with deeper sympathy into all 
my fellow mortals. 

None of Stickeen’s friends knows what finally be¬ 
came of him. After my work for the season was 
done I departed for California, and I never saw the 
dear little fellow again. In reply to anxious in¬ 
quiries his master wrote me that in the summer of 
1883 he was stolen by a tourist at Fort Wrangel 
and taken away on a steamer. His fate is wrapped 
in mystery. Doubtless he has left this world — 
crossed the last crevasse — and gone to another. 
But he will not be forgotten. To me Stickeen is 
immortal. 


BETH GELERT 

OR, THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, 

And cheerly smiled the morn; 

And many a brach, and many a hound, 
Obeyed Llewelyn’s horn. 

And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a lustier cheer, 

“Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 
Llewelyn’s horn to hear. 

“ O, where does faithful Gelert roam, 

The flower of all his race, 

So true, so brave — a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase?” 

’Twas only at Llewelyn’s board 
The faithful Gelert fed; 

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord 
And sentinelled his bed. 

In sooth he was a peerless hound, 

The gift of royal John; 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

But now no G£lert could be found, 

And all the chase rode on. 

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells 
The gallant chidings rise, 

All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells 
The many-mingled cries! 

That day Llewelyn little loved 
The chase of hart and hare; 

And scant and small the booty proved, 
For G 61 ert was not there. 

Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied, 
When, near the portal seat, 

His truant G 61 ert he espied, 

Bounding his lord to greet. 

But, when he gained his castle-door, 
Aghast the chieftain stood; 

The hound all o’er was smeared with gore 
His lips, his fangs, ran blood. 

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise; 
Unused such looks to meet, 

His favorite checked his joyful guise, 

And crouched, and licked his feet. 


BETH GfeLERT 14 

Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed, 

And on went G$lert too; 

And still, wher’er his eyes he cast, 

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. 

O’erturned his infant’s bed he found, 

With blood-stained covert rent; 

And all around the walls and ground 
With recent blood besprent. 

He called his child — no voice replied — 

He searched with terror wild; 

Blood, blood he found on every side, 

But nowhere found his child. 

“Hell-hound! my child’s by thee devoured,” 
The frantic father cried; 

And to the hilt his vengeful sword 
He plunged in Gllert’s side. 

His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, 

No pity could impart; 

But still his G 61 ert’s dying yell 
Passed heavy o’er his heart. 

Aroused by G§lert’s dying yell, 

Some slumberer wakened nigh: 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


What words the parent’s joy could tell, 
To hear his infant’s cry! 

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap 
His hurried search had missed, 

All glowing from his rosy sleep, 

The cherub boy he kissed. 

Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, 
But, the same couch beneath, 

Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, 
Tremendous still in death. 

Ah! what was then Llewelyn’s pain! 

For now the truth was clear; 

His gallant hound the wolf had slain 
To save Llewelyn’s heir: 

Vain, vain was all Llewelyn’s wo; 

“Best of thy kind, adieu! 

The frantic blow which laid thee low 
This heart shall ever rue.” 

And now a gallant tomb they raise, 
With costly sculpture decked; 

And marbles storied with his praise 
Poor Gelert’s bones protect. 


BETH GELERT 


143 


There, never could the spearman pass, 

Or forester unmoved; 

There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass 
Llewelyn’s sorrow proved. 

And there he hung his horn and spear, 
And there, as evening fell, 

In fancy’s ear he oft would hear 
Poor G$lert’s dying yell. 

And, till great Snowdon’s rocks grow old, 
And cease the storm to brave, 

The consecrated spot shall hold 
The name of “Gelert’s Grave.” 


William Robert Spencer 




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SCALLY 

THE STORY OF A PERFECT GENTLEMAN 
By 

Ian Hay 






































































































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SCALLY 

THE STORY OF A PERFECT GENTLEMAN 
I 

“Bettersea trem? Right, miss!” My wife, who 
has been married long enough to feel deeply grati¬ 
fied at being mistaken for a maiden lady, smiled 
seraphically at the conductor, and allowed herself 
to be hoisted up the steps of the majestic vehicle 
provided by a paternal county council to convey 
passengers — at a loss to the ratepayers, I under¬ 
stand — from the Embankment to Battersea. 

Presently we ground our way round a curve 
and began to cross Westminster Bridge. The con¬ 
ductor, whose innate cockney bonhomie his high 
official position had failed to eradicate, presented 
himself before us and collected our fares. 






148 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

“ What part of Bettersea did you require, sir?” 
he asked of me. 

I coughed and answered evasively: 

“Oh, about the middle.” 

“We haven’t been there before,” added my 
wife, quite gratuitously. 

The conductor smiled indulgently and punched 
our tickets. 

“I’ll tell you when to get down,” he said, and 
left us. 

For some months we had been considering the 
question of buying a dog, and a good deal of our 
spare time — or perhaps I should say of my spare 
time, for a woman’s time is naturally all her own 
— had been pleasantly occupied in discussing the 
matter. Having at length committed ourselves to 
the purchase of the animal, we proceeded to con¬ 
sider such details as breed, sex, and age. 

My wife vacillated between a bloodhound, be¬ 
cause bloodhounds are so aristocratic in appear¬ 
ance, and a Pekinese, because they are dernier cri . 
We like to be dernier cri even in Much Moreham. 
Her younger sister, Eileen, who spends a good deal 
of time with us, having no parents of her own, 
suggested an Old English sheep dog, explaining 
that it would be company for my wife when I was 
away from home. I coldly recommended a mastiff. 


SCALLY 


149 

Our son John, aged three, on being consulted, 
expressed a preference for twelve tigers in a box, 
and was not again invited to participate in the 
debate. 

Finally we decided on an Aberdeen terrier, of 
an age and sex to be settled by circumstances, and 
I was instructed to communicate with a gentle¬ 
man in the North who advertised in our morning 
paper that Aberdeen terriers were his specialty. 
In due course we received a reply. The advertiser 
recommended two animals — namely, Celtic 
Chief, aged four months, and Scotia’s Pride, aged 
one year. Pedigrees were enclosed, each about as 
complicated as the family tree of the House of 
Hapsburg; and the favor of an early reply was re¬ 
quested, as both dogs were being hotly bid for by 
an anonymous client in Constantinople. 

The price of Celtic Chief was twenty guineas; 
that of Scotia’s Pride, for reasons heavily under¬ 
lined in the pedigree, was twenty-seven. The ad¬ 
vertiser, who resided in Aberdeen, added that 
these prices did not cover cost of carriage. We 
decided not to stand in the way of the gentleman 
in Constantinople, and having sent back the pedi¬ 
grees by return of post, resumed the debate. 

Finally Stella, my wife, said: 

“We don’t really want a dog with a pedigree. 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


150 

We only want something that will bark at beggars 
and be gentle with baby. Why not go to the 
Home for Lost Dogs at Battersea? I believe you 
can get any dog you like there for five shillings. 
We will run up to town next Wednesday and see 
about it — and I might get some clothes as well.” 

Hence our presence on the tram. 

Presently the conductor, who had kindly 
pointed out to us such objects of local interest as 
the River Thames and the Houses of Parliament, 
stopped the tram in a crowded thoroughfare and 
announced that we were in Battersea. 

“Alight here,” he announced facetiously, “for 
’Ome for Lost Dawgs!” 

Guiltily realizing that there is many a true word 
spoken in jest, we obeyed him, and the tram went 
rocking and whizzing out of sight. We had es¬ 
chewed a cab. 

“When you are only going to pay five shillings 
for a dog,” my wife had pointed out, with convinc¬ 
ing logic, “it is silly to go and pay perhaps an¬ 
other five shillings for a cab. It doubles the price 
of the dog at once. If we had been buying an ex¬ 
pensive dog we might have taken a cab; but not 
for a five-shilling one.” 

“Now,” I inquired briskly, “how are we going 
to find this place?” 


SCALLY 


151 

“Haven’t you any idea where it is?” 

“No. I have a sort of vague notion that it is on 
an island in the middle of the river, called the Isle 
of Dogs, or Barking Reach, or something like that. 
However, I have no doubt — ” 

“Hadn’t we better ask some one?” suggested 
Stella. 

I demurred. 

“If there is one thing I dislike,” I said, “it is 
accosting total strangers and badgering them for 
information they don’t possess — not that that 
will prevent them from giving it. If we start ask¬ 
ing the way, we shall find ourselves in Putney or 
Woolwich in no time!” 

“Yes, dear,” said Stella soothingly. 

“ Now I suggest—’ ’ My hand went to my pocket. 

“No, darling,” interposed my wife, hastily; 
“not a map, please!” It is a curious psychologi¬ 
cal fact that women have a constitutional aver-, 
sion to maps and railroad time-tables. They 
would rather consult a half-witted errand boy or 
a deaf railroad porter. “Do not let us make a 
spectacle of ourselves in the public streets again! 
I have not yet forgotten the day when you tried 
to find the Crystal Palace. Besides, it will only 
blow away. Ask that dear little boy there. He is 
looking at us so wistfully.” 


152 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

Yes; I admit it was criminal folly. A man who 
asks a London street boy to be so kind as to direct 
him to a Home for Lost Dogs has only himself to 
thank for the consequence. 

The wistful little boy smiled up at us. He had 
a pinched face and large eyes. 

“Lost Dogs’ ’Ome, sir?” he said courteously. 
“ It’s a good long way. Do you want to get there 
quick?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then if I was you, sir,” replied the infant, edg¬ 
ing to the mouth of an alleyway, “ I should bite a 
policeman!” And, with an ear-splitting yell, he 
vanished. 

We walked on, hot-faced. 

“Little wretch!” said Stella. 

“We simply asked for it,” I rejoined. “What 
are we going to do next?” 

My question was answered in a most incredible 
fashion, for at this moment a man emerged from a 
shop on our right and set off down the street be¬ 
fore us. He wore a species of uniform; and em¬ 
blazoned on the front of his hat was the informa¬ 
tion that he was an official of the Battersea Home 
for Lost and Starving Dogs. 

“Wait a minute and I will ask him,” I said, 
starting forward. 


SCALLY 


153 


But my wife would not hear of it. 

“Certainly not,” she replied. “If we ask him, 
he will simply offer to show us the way. Then we 
shall have to talk to him — about hydrophobia, 
and lethal chambers, and distemper — and it may 
be for miles. I simply couldn’t bear it! We shall 
have to tip him, too. Let us follow him quietly.” 

To those who have never attempted to track a 
fellow creature surreptitiously through the streets 
of London on a hot day, the feat may appear 
simple. It is in reality a most exhausting, dilatory, 
and humiliating exercise. Our difficulty lay not so 
much in keeping our friend in sight as in avoid¬ 
ing frequent and unexpected collisions with him. 
The general idea, as they say on field days, was to 
keep about twenty yards behind him; but under 
certain circumstances distance has an uncanny 
habit of annihilating itself. The man himself was 
no hustler. Once or twice he stopped to light his 
pipe or converse with a friend. 

During these interludes Stella and I loafed 
guiltily on the pavement, pointing out to one an¬ 
other objects of local interest with the fatuous 
officiousness of people in the foreground of hotel 
advertisements. Occasionally he paused to con¬ 
template the contents of a shop window. We 
gazed industriously into the window next door. 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


154 

Our first window, I recollect, was an undertaker’s, 
with ready-printed expressions of grief for sale on 
white porcelain disks. We had time to read them 
all. The next was a butcher’s. Here we stayed, 
perforce, so long that the proprietor, who was of 
the tribe that disposes of its wares almost entirely 
by personal canvass, came out into the street and 
endeavored to sell us a bullock’s heart. 

Our quarry’s next proceeding was to dive into a 
public house. We turned and surveyed one an¬ 
other. 

“ What are we to do now? ” inquired my wife. 

“Go inside, too,” I replied with more enthu¬ 
siasm than I had hitherto displayed. “At least, I 
think I ought to. You can please yourself.” 

“I will not be left in the street,” said Stella 
firmly. “We must just wait here together until 
he comes out.” 

“There may be another exit,” I objected. “We 
had better go in. I shall take something, just to 
keep up appearances; and you must sit down in 
the ladies’ bar, or the snug, or whatever they call 
it.” 

“Certainly not!” said Stella. 

We had arrived at this impasse when the man 
suddenly reappeared, wiping his mouth. Instantly 
and silently we fell in behind him. 


SCALLY 


155 

For the first time the man appeared to notice 
our presence. He regarded us curiously, with a 
faint gleam of recognition in his eyes, and then 
set off down the street at a good pace. We fol¬ 
lowed, panting. Once or twice he looked back 
over his shoulder a little apprehensively, I 
thought. But we ploughed on. 

“We ought to get there soon at this pace,” I 
gasped. “Hello! He’s gone again!” 

“He turned down to the right,” said Stella ex¬ 
citedly. 

The lust of the chase was fairly on us now. We 
swung eagerly round the corner into a quiet by¬ 
street. Our man was nowhere to be seen and the 
street was almost empty. 

“ Come on!” said Stella. “He may have turned 
in somewhere.” 

We hurried down the street. Suddenly, warned 
by a newly awakened and primitive instinct, I 
looked back. We had overrun our quarry. He 
had just emerged from some hiding-place and 
was heading back toward the main street, looking 
fearfully over his shoulder. Once more we were 
in full cry. 

For the next five minutes we practically ran — 
all three of us. The man was obviously fright¬ 
ened out of his wits, and kept making frenzied 


156 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

and spasmodic spurts, from which we surmised 
that he was getting to the end of his powers of 
endurance. 

“If only we could overtake him,” I said, haul¬ 
ing my exhausted spouse along by the arm, “we 
could explain that — ” 

“He’s gone again!” exclaimed Stella. 

She was right. The man had turned another 
corner. We followed him round hotfoot, and 
found ourselves in a prim little cul-de-sac , with 
villas on each side. Across the end of the street 
ran a high wall, obviously screening a railroad 
track. 

“We’ve got him! ,, I exclaimed. 

I felt as Moltke must have felt when he closed 
the circle at Sedan. 

“But where is the Dogs’ Home, dear?” in¬ 
quired Stella. 

The question was never answered, for at this 
moment the man ran up the steps of the fourth 
villa on the left and slipped a latchkey into the 
lock. The door closed behind him with a venom¬ 
ous snap and we were left alone in the street, 
guideless and dogless. 

A minute later the man appeared at the ground- 
floor window, accompanied by a female of com¬ 
manding appearance. He pointed us out to her. 


SCALLY 


157 

Behind them we could dimly descry a white 
tablecloth, a tea cozy and covered dishes. 

The commanding female, after a prolonged and 
withering glare, plucked a hairpin from her head 
and ostentatiously proceeded to skewer together 
the starchy white curtains that framed the win¬ 
dow. Privacy secured and the sanctity of the 
English home thus pointedly vindicated, she and 
her husband disappeared into the murky back¬ 
ground, where they doubtless sat down to an ex¬ 
cellent high tea. Exhausted and discomfited, we 
drifted away. 

'‘I am going home,” said Stella in a hollow 
voice. “And I think,” she added bitterly, “that 
it might have occurred to you to suggest that the 
creature might possibly be going from the Dogs’ 
Home and not to it.” 

I apologized. It is the simplest plan, really. 

II 

It was almost dark when the train arrived at our 
little country station. We set out to walk home 
by the short cut across the golf course. 

“Anyhow, we have saved five shillings,” re¬ 
marked Stella. 

“We paid half a crown for that taxi which took 
us back to Victoria Station,” I reminded her. 


158 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

“Do not argue to-night, darling,** responded 
my wife. “I simply cannot endure anything 
more.*’ 

Plainly she was a little unstrung. Very consid¬ 
erately, I selected another topic. 

“I think our best plan,” I said cheerfully, 
“would be to advertise for a dog.” 

“ I never wish to see a dog again,” replied Stella. 

I surveyed her with some concern and said 
gently: 

“lam afraid you are tired, dear.” 

“No; I’m not.” 

“A little shaken, perhaps?” 

“Nothing of the kind. Joe, what is that?” 

Stella’s fingers bit deep into my biceps muscle, 
causing me considerable pain. We were passing 
a small sheet of water which guards the thirteenth 
green on the golf course. It is a stagnant and un¬ 
clean pool, but we make rather a fuss of it. We 
call it the pond; and if you play a ball into it you 
send a blasphemous caddie in after it and count 
one stroke. 

A young moon was struggling up over the trees, 
dismally illuminating the scene. On the slimy 
shores of the pond we beheld a small moving 
object. 

A yard behind it was another object, a little 


SCALLY 


159 

smaller, moving at exactly the same pace. One of 
the objects was emitting sounds of distress. 

Abandoning my quaking consort I advanced 
to the edge of the pond and leaned down to in¬ 
vestigate the mystery. 

The leading object proved to be a small, wet, 
shivering, whimpering puppy. The satellite was a 
brick. The two were connected by a string. The 
puppy had just emerged from the depths of the 
pond, towing the brick behind it. 

“What is it, dear?” repeated Stella fearfully. 

“Your dog!” I replied, and cut the string. 

Ill 

We spent three days deciding on a name for him. 
Stella suggested Tiny, on account of his size. I 
pointed out that time might stultify this selection 
of a title. 

“I don’t think so,” said Eileen, supporting her 
sister. “That kind of dog does not grow very 
big.” 

“What kind of dog is he?” I inquired swiftly. 

Eileen said no more. There are problems that 
even girls of twenty cannot solve. 

A warm bath had revealed to us the fact that 
the puppy was of a dingy yellow hue. I suggested 
that we should call him Mustard. Our son John, 


i6o 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


on being consulted — against my advice — by 
his mother, addressed the animal as Pussy. Stella 
continued to favor Tiny. Finally Eileen, who was 
at the romantic age, produced a copy of Tennyson 
and suggested Excalibur, alleging in support of 
her preposterous proposition that 

“It rose from out the bosom of the lake.” 

“The darling rose from out the bosom of the 
lake, too, just like the sword Excalibur,” she said; 
“so I think it would make a lovely name for him.” 

“The little brute waded out of a muddy pond 
towing a brick,” I replied. “ I see no parallel. He 
was not the product of the pond. Some one must 
have thrown him in, and he came out.” 

“That is just what some one must have done 
with the sword,” retorted Eileen. “So we’ll call 
you Excalibur, won’t we, darling little Scally?” 

She embraced the puppy warmly and the un¬ 
suspecting animal replied by frantically licking her 
face. 

However, the name stuck, with variations. 
When the puppy was big enough he was presented 
with a collar, engraved with the name Excalibur, 
together with my name and address. Among our¬ 
selves we usually addressed him as Scally. The 
children in the village called him the Scalawag. 

His time during his first year in our household 



SCALLY 











* 

* 




► 

















* 




































SCALLY 


161 


was fully occupied in growing up. Stella declared 
that if one could have persuaded him to stand still 
for five minutes it would have been actually possi¬ 
ble to see him grow. He grew at the rate of about 
an inch a week for the best part of a year. When 
he had finished, he looked like nothing on earth. 
At one time we cherished a brief but illusory hope 
that he was going to turn into some sort of an 
imitation of a Saint Bernard; but the symp¬ 
toms rapidly passed off, and his final and per¬ 
manent aspect was that of a rather badly stuffed 
lion. 

Like most overgrown creatures he was top- 
heavy and lethargic and very humble-minded. 
Still, there was a kind of respectful pertinacity 
about him. It requires some strength of character, 
for instance, to wade along the bottom of a pond 
to dry land, accompanied by a brick as big as 
yourself. It was quite impossible, too, short of 
locking him up, to prevent him from accompany¬ 
ing us when we took our walks abroad, if he had 
made up his mind to do so. 

The first time this happened I was going to 
shoot with my neighbors, the Hoods. It was only 
a mile to the first covert and I set off after break¬ 
fast to walk. I was hardly out on the road when 
Excalibur was beside me, ambling uncertainly on 


162 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


his weedy legs and smiling up into my face with an 
air of imbecile affection. 

“You have many qualities, old friend,” I said, 
“but I don’t think you are a sporting dog. Go 
home!” 

Excalibur sat down on the road with a dejected 
air. Then, having given me fifty yards start, he 
rose and crawled sheepishly after me. I stopped, 
called him up, pointed him with some difficulty 
in the required direction, gave him a resound¬ 
ing spank and bade him begone. He responded 
by collapsing like a camp bedstead, and I left 
him. 

Two minutes later I looked round. Excalibur 
was ten yards behind me, propelling himself along 
on his stomach. This time I thrashed him se¬ 
verely. After he began to howl I let him go, and 
he lumbered away homeward, the picture of 
misery. 

In due course I reached the crossroads where I 
had arranged to meet the rest of the party. They 
had not arrived, but Excalibur had. He had made 
a d6tour and headed me off. Not certain which 
route I would take after reaching the crossroads, 
he was sitting very sensibly under the signpost, 
awaiting my arrival. On seeing me he immediately 
came forward, wagging his tail, and placed himself 


SCALLY 163 

at my feet in the position most convenient to me 
for inflicting chastisement. 

I wonder how many of our human friends would 
be willing to pay such a price for the pleasure of 
our company. 

As time went on Excalibur filled out into one of 
the most terrifying spectacles I have ever beheld. 
In one respect, though, he lived up to his knightly 
name. His manners were of the most courtly 
description and he had an affectionate greeting for 
all, beggars included. He was particularly fond of 
children. If he saw children in the distance he 
would canter up and offer to play with them. If 
the children had not met him before they would 
run shrieking to their nurses. If they had they 
would fall on Excalibur in a body and roll him 
over and pull him about. 

On wet afternoons, in the nursery, my own 
family used to play at dentist with him, assigning 
to Excalibur the r 61 e of patient. Gas was admin¬ 
istered with a bicycle pump, and a shoehorn and 
buttonhook were employed in place of the ordi¬ 
nary instruments of torture; but Excalibur did not 
mind. He lay on his back on the hearth rug, with 
the principal dentist sitting astride his ribs, as 
happy as a king. 

He was particularly attracted by babies; and 


164 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

being able by reason of his stature to look right 
down into perambulators, he was accustomed 
whenever he met one of those vehicles to amble 
alongside and peer inquiringly into the face of its 
occupant. Most of the babies in the district got to 
know him in time, but until they did we had a 
good deal of correspondence to attend to on the 
subject. 

Excalibur’s intellect may have been lofty, but 
his memory was treacherous. Our household will 
never forget the day on which he was given the 
shoulder of mutton. 

One morning after breakfast Eileen, accompa¬ 
nied by Excalibur, intercepted the kitchen maid 
hastening in the direction of the potting shed, 
carrying the joint in question at arm’s length. 
The damsel explained that its premature matu¬ 
rity was due to the recent warm weather and that 
she was even now in search of the gardener’s boy, 
who would be commissioned to perform the du¬ 
ties of sexton. 

“It seems a waste, miss,” observed the kitchen 
maid; “ but cook says it can’t be ate nohow now.” 

Loud but respectful snuffings from Excalibur 
moved a direct negative to this statement. Eileen 
and the kitchen maid, who were both criminally 
weak where Excalibur was concerned, saw a way 


SCALLY 165 

to gratify their economical instincts and their 
natural affection simultaneously. The next mo¬ 
ment Excalibur was lurching contentedly down 
the gravel path with a presentation shoulder of 
mutton in his mouth. 

Then Joy Day began. Excalibur took his prize 
into the middle of the tennis lawn. It was a 
very large shoulder of mutton, but Excalibur fin¬ 
ished it in ten minutes. After that, distended to 
his utmost limits, he went to sleep in the sun, 
with the bone between his paws. Occasionally he 
woke up and, raising his head, stared solemnly into 
space, in the attitude of a Trafalgar Square lion. 

The bone now lay white and gleaming on the 
grass beside him. Then he fell asleep again. 
About four o’clock he roused himself and began 
to look for a suitable place of interment for the 
bone. By four-thirty the deed was done and he 
went to sleep once more. At five he woke up and 
pandemonium began. He could not remember 
where he had buried the bone! 

He started systematically with the rose beds, 
but met with no success. After that he tried two 
or three shrubberies without avail, and then em¬ 
barked on a frantic but thorough excavation of 
the tennis lawn. We were taking tea on the lawn 
at the time, and our attention was first drawn to 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


166 

Excalibur’s bereavement by a temporary but un¬ 
shakable conviction on his part that the bone was 
buried immediately underneath the tea table. 

As the tennis lawn was fast beginning to re¬ 
semble a golf course we locked Excalibur up in 
the washhouse, where his hyena-like howls rent the 
air for the rest of the evening, penetrating even 
to the dining-room. This was particularly unfor¬ 
tunate, because we were having a dinner party 
in honor of a neighbor who had recently come to 
the district, no less a personage, in fact, than the 
new lord-lieutenant of the county and his lady. 
Stella was naturally anxious that there should be 
no embarrassments on such an occasion, and it 
distressed her to think that these people should 
imagine that we kept a private torture chamber 
on the premises. 

However, dinner passed off quite successfully 
and we adjourned to the drawing-room. It was a 
chilly September evening and Lady Wickham was 
accommodated with a seat by the fire in a large 
armchair, with a cushion at her back. When the 
gentlemen came in Eileen sang to us. Fortu¬ 
nately the drawing-room is out of range of the 
washhouse. 

During Eileen’s first song I sat by Lady Wick¬ 
ham. Her expression was one of patrician calm 


SCALLY 167 

and well-bred repose, but it seemed to me she was 
not looking quite comfortable. I was not feeling 
quite comfortable myself. The atmosphere seemed 
a trifle oppressive: perhaps we had done wrong in 
having a fire after all. Lady Wickham appeared to 
notice it too. She sat very upright, fanning herself 
mechanically, and seemed disinclined to lean back 
in her chair. 

After the song was finished I said: 

“I am afraid you are not quite comfortable, 
Lady Wickham. Let me get you a larger cushion.” 

“Thank you,” said Lady Wickham, “the 
cushion I have is delightfully comfortable; but I 
think there is something hard behind it.” 

Apologetically I plucked away the cushion. 
Lady Wickham was right; there was something 
behind it. 

It was Excalibur’s bone! 

IV 

A walk along the village street was always a great 
event for Excalibur. Still, it must have contained 
many humiliating moments for one of his sensitive 
disposition; for he was always pathetically anxious 
to make friends with other dogs, but was rarely 
successful. Little dogs merely bit his legs and big 
dogs cut him dead. 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


168 

I think this was why he usually commenced his 
morning round by calling on a rabbit. The rabbit 
lived in a hutch in a yard at the end of a passage 
between two cottages, the first turning on the right 
after you entered the village, and Excalibur always 
dived down this at the earliest opportunity. It 
was no use for Eileen, who usually took him out on 
these occasions, to endeavor to hold him back. 
Either Excalibur called on the rabbit by himself or 
Eileen went with him; there was no other alterna¬ 
tive. 

Arrived at the hutch, Excalibur wagged his tail 
and contemplated the rabbit with his usual air 
of vacuous benevolence. The rabbit made not the 
faintest response, but continued to munch green 
feed, twitching its nose in a superior manner. 
Finally, when it could endure Excalibur’s admir¬ 
ing inspection and hard breathing no longer, it 
turned its back and retired into its bedroom. 

Excalibur’s next call was usually at the butch¬ 
er’s shop, where he was presented with a specially 
selected and quite unsalable fragment of meat. 
He then crossed the road to the baker’s, where he 
purchased a halfpenny bun, for which his escort 
was expected to pay. After that he walked from 
shop to shop, wherever he was taken, with great 
docility and enjoyment; for he was a gregarious 


SCALLY 169 

animal and had a friend behind or underneath al¬ 
most every counter in the village. Men, women, 
babies, kittens, even ducks — they were all one 
to him. 

At one time Eileen had endeavored to teach him 
a few simple accomplishments, such as begging for 
food, dying for his country, and carrying parcels. 
She was unsuccessful in all three instances. Ex- 
calibur on his hind legs stood about five feet six, 
and when he fell from that eminence, as he in¬ 
variably did when he tried to beg, he usually broke 
something. He was hampered, too, by inability to 
distinguish one order from another. More than 
once he narrowly escaped with his life through 
mistaking an urgent appeal to come to heel out 
of the way of an approaching automobile for a 
command to die for his country in the middle of 
the road. 

As for educating him to carry parcels, a single 
attempt was sufficient. The parcel in question 
contained a miscellaneous assortment of articles 
from the grocer’s, including lard, soap, and safety 
matches. It was securely tied up, and the grocer 
kindly attached it by a short length of string to a 
wooden clothespin, in order to make it easier for 
Excalibur to carry. They set off home. 

Excalibur was most apologetic about it after- 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


170 

ward, besides being extremely unwell; but he had 
no idea, he explained to Eileen, that anything put 
into his mouth was not meant to be eaten. He then 
tendered the clothespin and some mangled brown 
paper, with an air of profound abasement. After 
that no further attempts at compulsory education 
were undertaken. 

It was his daily walk with Eileen, however, 
which introduced Excalibur to life — life in its 
broadest and most romantic sense. As I was not 
privileged to be present at the opening incident of 
this episode, or at most of its subsequent develop¬ 
ments, the direct conduct of this narrative here 
passes out of my hands. 

One sunny morning in July a young man in 
clerical attire sat breakfasting in his rooms at Mrs. 
Tice’s. Mrs. Tice’s establishment was situated on 
the village street and Mrs. Tice was in the habit of 
letting her ground floor to lodgers of impeccable 
respectability. 

It was half-past eleven, which is a late hour 
for the clergy to breakfast; but this young man 
appeared to be suffering from no qualms of con¬ 
science on the subject. He was making an excel¬ 
lent breakfast and reading the Henley results with 
a mixture of rapture and longing. 

He had just removed the “Sportsman ” from the 


SC ALLY 171 

convenient buttress of the teapot and substituted 
“Punch” when he became aware that day had 
turned to night. Looking up he perceived that his 
open window, which was rather small and of the 
casement variety, was completely blocked by a 
huge, shapeless, and opaque mass. Next moment 
the mass resolved itself into an animal of enor¬ 
mous size and surprising appearance, which fell 
heavily into the room, and 

“Like a stream that, spouting from a cliff, 

Fails in mid-air, but, gathering at the base 
Remakes itself,” 

rose to its feet and, advancing to the table, laid a 
heavy head on the white cloth and lovingly passed 
its tongue — which resembled that of the great 
anteater — round a cold chicken conveniently 
adjacent. 

Five minutes later the window framed another 
picture — this time a girl of twenty, white-clad 
and wearing a powder-blue felt hat, caught up on 
one side by a silver buckle which twinkled in the 
hot morning sun. The curate started to his feet. 
Excalibur, who was now lying on the hearthrug 
dismembering the chicken, thumped his tail 
guiltily on the floor, but made no attempt to rise. 

“ I am very sorry,” said Eileen, “ but I am afraid 
my dog is trespassing. May I call him out?” 


172 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


“Certainly!” said the curate. “But” — he 
racked his brains to devise some means of delaying 
the departure of this radiant, fragrant vision — 
“he is not the least in the way. I am very glad of 
his company; it was most neighborly of him to 
call. After all, I suppose he is one of my parish¬ 
ioners. And — and” — he blushed — “I hope you 
are, too.” 

Eileen gave him her most entrancing smile, 
and from that hour the curate ceased to be his 
own master. 

“I suppose you are Mr. Gilmore,” said Eileen. 

“Yes. I have been here only three weeks and I 
have not met every one yet.” 

“I have been away for two months,” Eileen 
mentioned. 

“I thought you must have been,” said the 
curate, rather subtly for him. 

“I think my brother-in-law called on you a few 
days ago,” continued Eileen, on whom the curate's 
last remark had made a most favorable impres¬ 
sion. She mentioned my name. 

“ I was going to return the call this very after¬ 
noon,” said the curate. And he firmly believed 
that he was speaking the truth. “Won't you 
come in? We have an excellent chaperon,” indi¬ 
cating Excalibur. “ I will come and open the door.” 


SCALLY 


173 

“Well, he certainly won't come out unless I 
come and fetch him,” admitted Eileen thought¬ 
fully. 

A moment later the curate was at the front door 
and led his visitor across the little hall into the 
sitting-room. He had not been absent more than 
thirty seconds, but during that time a plateful of 
sausages had mysteriously disappeared; and, as 
they entered, Excalibur was apologetically settling 
down on the hearthrug with a cottage loaf between 
his paws. 

Eileen uttered cries of dismay and apology, but 
the curate would have none of them. 

“My fault entirely!” he insisted. “I have no 
right to be breakfasting at this hour; but this is 
my day off. You see I take early Service every 
morning at seven; but on Wednesdays we cut it 
out — omit it and have full Matins at ten. So I 
get up at half-past nine, take Service at ten, and 
come back to my rooms at eleven and have break¬ 
fast. It is my weekly treat.” 

“You deserve it,” said Eileen feelingly. Her 
religious exercises were limited to going to church 
on Sunday morning and coming out, if possible, 
after the Litany. “And how do you like Much 
Moreham?” 

“I did not like it at all when I came,” said the 


174 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

curate, “but recently I have begun to enjoy my¬ 
self immensely.” He did not say how recently. 

“Were you in London before?” 

“Yes — in the East End. It was pretty hard 
work, but a useful experience. I feel rather lost 
here during my spare time. I get so little exer¬ 
cise. In London I used to slip away for an occa¬ 
sional outing in a Leander scratch eight, and 
that kept me fit. I am inclined,” he added rue¬ 
fully, “to put on flesh.” 

“Leander? Are you a Blue?” 

The curate nodded. 

“You know about rowing, I see,” he said 
appreciatively. “The worst of rowing,” he con¬ 
tinued, “is that it takes up so much of a man’s 
time that he has no opportunity of practicing any¬ 
thing else — cricket, for instance. All curates 
ought to be able to play cricket. I do my best; but 
there isn’t a single boy in the Sunday School who 
can’t bowl me. It’s humiliating!” 

“ Do you play tennis at all?” asked Eileen. 

“Yes, in a way.” 

“ I am sure my sister will be pleased if you come 
and have a game with us some afternoon.” 

The enraptured curate had already opened his 
mouth to accept this demure invitation when Ex- 
calibur, rising from the hearthrug, stretched him- 


SCALLY 


175 

self luxuriously and wagged his tail, thereby re¬ 
moving three pipes, an inkstand, a tobacco jar, 
and a half-completed sermon from the writing 
table. 


V 

Excalibur was heavily overworked in his new 
r 61 e of chaperon during the next three or four 
weeks, and any dog less ready to oblige than him¬ 
self might have felt a little aggrieved at the treat¬ 
ment to which he was subjected. 

There was the case of the tennis lawn, for in¬ 
stance. He had always regarded this as his own 
particular sanctuary, dedicated to reflection and 
repose; but now the net was stretched across it 
and Eileen and the curate performed antics all 
over the court with rackets and small white balls 
which, though they did not hurt Excalibur, kept 
him awake. It did not occur to him to convey him¬ 
self elsewhere, for his mind moved slowly; and the 
united blandishments of the players failed to bring 
the desirability of such a course home to him. 
He continued to lie in his favorite spot on the 
sunny side of the court, looking injured but for¬ 
giving, or slumbering perseveringly amid the 
storm that raged round him. 

It was quite impossible to move Excalibur once 


176 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

he had decided to remain where he was; so Eileen 
and the curate agreed to regard him as a sort of 
artificial excrescence, like the buttress in a fives 
court. If the ball hit him, as it frequently did, the 
player waiting for it was at liberty either to play 
it or claim a let. This arrangement added a pi¬ 
quant and pleasing variety to what is too often — 
especially when indulged in by mediocre players 
— a very dull game. 

Worse was to follow, however. One day Eileen 
and the curate conducted Excalibur to a neigh¬ 
boring mountain range — at least, so it appeared 
to Excalibur — and played another ball game. 
This time they employed long sticks with iron 
heads, and two balls, which, though they were 
much smaller than tennis balls, were incredibly 
hard and painful. Excalibur, though willing to 
help and anxious to please, could not supervise 
both the balls at once. As sure as he ran to re¬ 
trieve one the other came after him and took him 
unfairly in the rear. Excalibur was the gentlest of 
creatures, but the most perfect gentleman has his 
dignity to consider. 

After having been struck for the third time by 
one of these balls he whipped round, picked it up 
in his mouth and gave it a tiny pinch, just as a 
warning. At least, he thought it was a tiny pinch. 


SCALLY 


177 

The ball retaliated with unexpected ferocity. It 
twisted and turned. It emitted long, snaky spirals 
of some elastic substance, which clogged his teeth 
and tickled his throat and wound themselves 
round his tongue and nearly choked him. Panic- 
stricken, he ran to his mistress, who, with weeping 
and with laughter, removed the writhing horror 
from his jaws and comforted him with fair words. 

After that Excalibur realized that it is wiser to 
walk behind golfers than in front of them. It was 
a boring business, though, and very exhausting, 
for he loathed exercise of every kind; and his only 
periods of repose were the occasions on which the 
expedition came to a halt on certain small, flat 
lawns, each of which contained a hole with a flag 
in it. 

Here Excalibur would lie down, with the con¬ 
tented sigh of a tired child, and go to sleep. As he 
almost invariably lay down between the hole and 
the ball, the players agreed to regard him as a 
bunker. Eileen putted round him; but the curate 
— who had little regard for the humbler works of 
creation, Excalibur thought — used to take his 
mashie and attempt a lofting shot, an enterprise 
in which he almost invariably failed, to Excali¬ 
bur’s great inconvenience. 

Country walks were more tolerable, for Eileen’s 


178 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

supervision of his movements, which was usually 
marked by an officious severity, was sensibly re¬ 
laxed on these days and Excalibur found himself 
at liberty to range abroad amid the heath and 
through the coppices, engaged in a pastime that 
he imagined was hunting. 

One hot afternoon, wandering into a clearing, 
he encountered a hare. The hare, which was suf¬ 
fering from extreme panic, owing to a terrifying 
noise behind it — the blast of the newest and 
most vulgar motor horn, to be precise — was bolt¬ 
ing right across the clearing. After the manner of 
hares where objects directly in front of them are 
concerned, the fugitive entirely failed to perceive 
Excalibur and, indeed, ran right underneath him 
on its way to cover. Excalibur was so unstrung by 
this adventure that he ran back to where he had 
left Eileen and the curate. 

They were sitting side by side on the grass and 
the curate was holding Eileen’s hand. 

Excalibur advanced on them thankfully and in¬ 
dicated by an ingratiating smile that a friendly 
remark or other recognition of his presence would 
be gratefully received; but neither took the slight¬ 
est notice of him. They continued to gaze straight 
before them in a mournful and abstracted fashion. 
They looked not so much at Excalibur as through 


SCALLY 


179 

him. First the hare, then Eileen and the curate! 
Excalibur began to fear that he had become in¬ 
visible, or at least transparent. Greatly agitated, 
he drifted away into a neighboring plantation 
full of young pheasants. Here he encountered 
a keeper, who was able to dissipate his gloomy 
suspicions for him without any difficulty whatso¬ 
ever. But Eileen and the curate sat on. 

“A hundred pounds a year!” repeated the cu¬ 
rate. “A pass degree and no influence! I can’t 
preach and I have no money of my own. Dearest, 
I ought never to have told you.” 

“Told me what?” inquired Eileen softly. She 
knew quite well; but she was a woman, and a wo¬ 
man can never let well enough alone. 

The curate, turning to Eileen, delivered him¬ 
self of a statement of three words. Eileen’s reply 
was a softly whispered Tu quoquel 

“ It had to happen, dear,” she added cheerfully, 
for she did not share the curate’s burden of re¬ 
sponsibility in the matter. “ If you had not told 
me we should have been miserable separately. 
Now that you have told me, we can be miserable 
together. And when two people who — who — ” 
She hesitated. 

The curate supplied the relative sentence. Ei¬ 
leen nodded her head in acknowledgment. 


i8o THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

“Yes; who are — like you and me — miserable 
together, they are happy! See?” 

“ I see,” said the curate gravely. “Yes, you are 
right there; but we can’t go on living on a diet of 
joint misery. We shall have to face the future. 
What are we going to do about it?” 

Then Eileen spoke up boldly for the first time. 

“Gerald,” she said, “we shall simply have to 
manage on a hundred a year.” 

But the curate shook his head. 

“Dearest, I should be an utter cad if I allowed 
you to do such a thing,” he said. “A hundred a 
year is less than two pounds a week!” 

“A lot of people live on less than two pounds a 
week,” Eileen pointed out longingly. 

“Yes; I know. If we could rent a three-shilling 
cottage and I could go about with a spotted hand¬ 
kerchief round my neck, and you could scrub the 
doorsteps coram populo , we might be very comfort¬ 
able; but the clergy belong to the black-coated 
class, and people in the lower ranks of the black- 
coated class are the poorest people in the whole 
wide world. They have to spend money on lux¬ 
uries — collars and charwomen, and so on — 
which a workingman can spend entirely on ne¬ 
cessities. It wouldn’t merely mean no pretty 
dresses and a lot of hard work for you, Eileen. It 


SCALLY 181 

would mean starvation! Believe me — I know! 
Some of my friends have tried it — and I know!” 

“What happened to them?” asked Eileen fear¬ 
fully. 

“They all had to come down in the end — 
some soon, some late, but all in time — to taking 
parish relief.” 

“Parish relief?” 

“Yes; not official, regulation, rate-aided char¬ 
ity, but the infinitely more humiliating charity of 
their well-to-do neighbors — quiet checks, second¬ 
hand dresses, and things like that. No, little girl; 
you and I are too proud — too proud of the cloth 
— for that. We will never give a handle to the 
people who are always waiting to have a fling at 
the improvident clergy — not if it breaks our 
hearts, we won't!” 

“You are quite right, dear,” said Eileen quietly. 
“We must wait.” 

Then the curate said the most difficult thing he 
had said yet: 

“I shall have to go away from here.” 

Eileen’s hand turned cold in his. 

“Why?” she whispered; but she knew. 

“Because if we wait here we shall wait forever. 
The last curate in Much Moreham — what hap¬ 
pened to him?” 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


182 

“He died.” 

“Yes — at fifty-five; and he had been here for 
thirty years. Preferment does not come in sleepy 
villages. I must go back to London.” 

“The East End?” 

“East or south or north — it doesn’t signify. 
Anywhere but west. In the east and south and 
north there is always work to be done — hard 
work. And if a parson has no money and no 
brains and no influence, and can only work — 
run clothing clubs and soup kitchens, and reclaim 
drunkards — London is the place for him. So off 
I go to London, my beloved, to lay the founda¬ 
tions of Paradise for you and me — for you and 
me!” 

There was a long silence. Then the pair rose to 
their feet and smiled on each other extremely 
cheerfully, because each suspected the other — 
rightly — of low spirits. 

“Shall we tell people?” asked the curate. 

Eileen thought, and shook her head. 

“No,” she said; “nicer not. It will make a 
splendid secret.” 

“Just between us two, eh?” said the curate, 
kindling at the thought. 

“Just between us two,” agreed Eileen. And 
the curate kissed her very solemnly. A secret is a 


SCALLY 183 

comfortable thing to lovers, especially when they 
are young and about to be lonely. 

At this moment a leonine head, supported on a 
lumbering and ill-balanced body, was thrust in be¬ 
tween them. It was Excalibur, taking sanctuary 
with the Church from the vengeance of the Law. 

“We might tell Scally, I think,” said Eileen. 

“Rather!” assented the curate. “He intro¬ 
duced us.” 

So Eileen communicated the great news to Ex¬ 
calibur. 

“You do approve, dear—don’t you?” she said. 

Excalibur, instinctively realizing that this was 
an occasion when liberties might be taken, stood 
up on his hind legs and placed his forepaws on his 
mistress’s shoulders. The curate supported them 
both. 

“And you will use your influence to get us a 
living wage from somewhere — won’t you, old 
man?” added the curate. 

Excalibur tried to lick both their faces at once 
— and succeeded. 

VI 

So the curate went away, but not to London. He 
was sent instead to a great manufacturing town 
in the north, where the work was equally hard, 


184 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

and where Anglican and Roman and Salvationist 
fought grimly side by side against the powers of 
drink and disease and crime. During these days, 
which ultimately rolled into years, the curate lost 
his boyish freshness and his unfortunate tendency 
to put on flesh. He grew thin and lathy; and, 
though his smile was as ready and as magnetic as 
ever, he seldom laughed. 

He never failed, however, to write a cheerful 
letter to Eileen every Monday morning. He was 
getting a hundred and twenty pounds a year now; 
so his chances of becoming a millionaire had in¬ 
creased by twenty per cent. 

Meantime his two confederates, Excalibur and 
Eileen, continued to reside at Much Moreham. 
Eileen was still the recognized beauty of the dis¬ 
trict, but she spread her net less promiscuously 
than of yore. Girl friends she always had in 
plenty, but it was noticed that she avoided inti¬ 
macy with all eligible males of over twenty and 
under forty-five years of age. No one knew the 
reason for his except Excalibur. Eileen used to 
read Gerald’s letters aloud to him every Tues¬ 
day morning; sometimes the letter contained a 
friendly message to Excalibur himself. 

In acknowledgment of this courtesy Excalibur 
always sent his love to the curate — Eileen wrote 


SC ALLY 185 

every Friday — and he and Eileen walked to¬ 
gether, rain or shine, on Friday afternoons to post 
the letter in the next village. Much Moreham’s 
post office was too small to remain oblivious to 
such a regular correspondence. 

The curate was seen no more in his old parish. 
Railroad journeys are costly things and curates* 
holidays rare. Besides, he had no overt excuse 
for coming. And so life went on for five years. 
The curate and Eileen may have met during that 
period, for Eileen sometimes went away visiting. 
As Excalibur was not privileged to accompany 
her on these occasions he had no means of check¬ 
ing her movements; but the chances are that she 
never saw the curate, or I think she would have 
told Excalibur about it. We simply have to tell 
some one. 

Then, quite suddenly, came a tremendous 
change in Excalibur*s life. Eileen’s brother-in-law 
— he was Excalibur’s master no longer, for Excali¬ 
bur had been transferred to Eileen by deed of 
gift, at her own request, on her first birthday after 
the curate’s departure — fell ill. There was an 
operation and a crisis, and a deal of unhappiness 
at Much Moreham; then came convalescence, 
followed by directions for a sea voyage of six 
months. It was arranged that the house should 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


186 

be shut up and the children sent to their grand¬ 
mother at Bath. 

“That settles everything and everybody,” 
said the gaunt man on the sofa, “ except you, Ei¬ 
leen? What about you?” 

“What about Scally?” inquired Eileen. 

Her brother-in-law apologetically admitted that 
he had forgotten Scally. 

“Not quite myself at present,’’ he mentioned in 
extenuation. 

“I am going to Aunt Phoebe,’’ announced Ei¬ 
leen. 

“You are never going to introduce Scally 
into Aunt Phoebe’s establishment!’’ cried Eileen’s 
sister. 

“ No,” said Eileen, “ I am not.” She rubbed Ex- 
calibur’s matted head affectionately. “But I have 
arranged for the dear man’s future. He is going to 
visit friends in the north. Aren’t you, darling?” 

Excalibur, to whom this arrangement had been 
privately communicated some days before, wagged 
his tail and endeavored to look as intelligent and 
knowing as possible. He was not going to put his 
beloved mistress to shame by admitting to her 
relatives that he had not the faintest idea what 
she was talking about. 

However, he was soon to understand. The next 


SCALLY 


187 

day Eileen took him up to London by train. This 
in itself was a tremendous adventure, though 
alarming at first. He traveled in the guard’s van, 
it having been found quite impossible to get him 
into an ordinary compartment — or, rather, to 
get any one else into the compartment after he 
lay down on the floor. So he traveled with the 
guard, chained to the vacuum brake, and shared 
that kindly official’s dinner. 

When they reached the terminus there was 
much bustle and confusion. The door of the van 
was thrown open and porters dragged out the lug¬ 
gage and submitted samples thereof to overheated 
passengers, who invariably failed to recognize 
their own property and claimed some one else’s. 

Finally, when the luggage was all cleared out, 
the guard took off Excalibur’s chain and face¬ 
tiously invited him to alight for London Town. 
Excalibur, lumbering delicately across the ribbed 
floor of the van, arrived at the open doorway. 
Outside on the platform he espied Eileen. Beside 
her stood a tall figure in black. 

With one tremendous roar of rapturous recog¬ 
nition, Excalibur leaped straight out of the van 
and launched himself fairly and squarely at the 
curate’s chest. Luckily the curate saw him com¬ 
ing. 


1.88 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


“He knows you, all right,” said Eileen with 
satisfaction. 

“He appears to,” replied the curate. “Afraid I 
don’t dance the tango, Scally, old man; but 
thanks for the invitation, all the same!” 

Excalibur spent the rest of the day in London, 
where it must be admitted he caused a genuine 
sensation — no mean feat in such a blase place. 

In Bond Street the traffic had to be held up 
both ways by benevolent policemen, because Ex¬ 
calibur, feeling pleasantly tired, lay down to rest. 

When evening came they all dined together in 
a cheap little restaurant in Soho and were very 
gay, with the gayety of people who are whistling 
to keep their courage up. After dinner Eileen 
said good-bye, first to Excalibur and then to the 
curate. She was much more demonstrative to¬ 
ward the former than toward the latter, which is 
the way of women. 

Then the curate put Eileen into a taxi and, 
having with the aid of the commissionaire ex¬ 
tracted Excalibur from underneath — he had 
gone there under some confused impression that 
it was the guard’s van again — said good-bye for 
the last time; and Eileen, smiling bravely, was 
whirled away out of sight. 

As the taxi turned a distant corner and dis- 


SC ALLY 189 

appeared from view, it suddenly occurred to Ex- 
calibur that he had been left behind. Accordingly 
he set off in pursuit. 

The curate finally ran him to earth in Bucking¬ 
ham Palace Road, which is a long chase from 
Soho, where he was sitting on the pavement, to 
the grave inconvenience of the inhabitants of 
Pimlico, and refusing to be comforted. It took his 
new master the best part of an hour to get him 
to Euston Road, where it was discovered they had 
missed the night mail to the north. Accordingly 
they walked to a rival station and took another 
train. 

In all this Excalibur was the instrument of 
Destiny, as you shall hear. 

VII 

The coroner’s jury was inclined at the time to 
blame the signalman, but the Board of Trade in¬ 
quiry established the fact that the accident was 
due to the engine-driver’s neglect to keep a pro¬ 
per lookout. However, as the driver was dead and 
his fireman with him, the law very leniently took 
no further action in the matter. 

About three o’clock in the morning, as the train 
was crossing a bleak Yorkshire moor seven miles 
from Tetley Junction, the curate suddenly left the 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


190 

seat on which he lay stretched dreaming of Eileen 
and flew across the compartment on to the recum¬ 
bent form of a stout commercial traveler. Then he 
rebounded to the floor and woke up — unhurt. 

“ ’Tis an accident, lad!” gasped the commer¬ 
cial traveler as he got his wind. 

“So it seems,” said the curate. “Hold tight! 
She's rocking!” 

The commercial traveler, who was mechanically 
groping under the seat for his boots — commer¬ 
cial travelers always remove their boots in third- 
class railroad compartments when on night jour¬ 
neys — followed the curate’s advice and braced 
himself with his feet against the opposite seat for 
the coming bouleversement. 

After the first shock the train had gathered 
way again — the light engine into which it had 
charged had been thrown clear off the track — 
but only for a moment. Suddenly the reeling en¬ 
gine of the express left the rails and staggered 
drunkenly along the ballast. A moment later it 
turned over, taking the guard’s van and the first 
four coaches with it, and the whole train came to a 
standstill. 

It was a corridor train, and unfortunately for 
Gerald Gilmore and the commercial traveler their 
coach fell over corridor side downward. There 


SCALLY 


191 

was no door on the other side of the compartment 
— only three windows, crossed by a stout brass 
bar. These windows had suddenly become sky¬ 
lights. 

They fought their way out at last. Once he got 
the window open, the curate experienced little 
difficulty in getting through; but the commercial 
traveler was corpulent and tenacious of his boots, 
which he held persistently in one hand while 
Gerald tugged at the other. Still, he was hauled 
up at last, and the two slid down the per¬ 
pendicular roof of the coach to the permanent 
way. 

“That’s done, anyway!” panted the drummer; 
and sitting down he began to put on his boots. 

“There’s plenty more to do,” said the curate 
grimly, pulling off his coat. “The front of the 
train is on fire. Come!” 

He turned and ran. Almost at his first step he 
cannoned into a heavy body in rapid motion. It 
was Excalibur. 

“That you, old friend?” observed the curate. 
“I was on my way to see about you. Now that 
you are out, you may as well come and bear a 
hand.” 

The pair sprinted along the line toward the 
blazing coaches. 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


192 

It was dawn— gray, weeping, and cheerless — 
on Tetley Moor. Another engine had come up 
from behind to take what was left of the train 
back to the Junction. Seven coaches, including 
the lordly sleeping saloon, stood intact; four, with 
the engine and tender, lay where they had fallen, 
a mass of charred wood and twisted metal. 

A motor car belonging to a doctor stood in the 
roadway a hundred yards off, and its owner, with 
a brother of the craft who had been a passenger 
on the train, was attending to the injured. There 
were fourteen of these altogether, mostly suffering 
from burns. These were made as comfortable as 
possible in sleeping berths their owners had va¬ 
cated. 

“Take your seats, please!” said the surviving 
guard in a subdued voice. He spoke at the direc¬ 
tion of a big man in a heavy overcoat, who ap¬ 
peared to have taken charge of the salvage opera¬ 
tions. The passengers clambered up into the train. 

Only one hesitated. He was a long, lean young 
man, black from head to foot with soot and oil. 
His left arm was badly burned; and seeing a doc¬ 
tor disengaged at last, he came forward to have it 
dressed. 

The big man in the heavy overcoat approached 
him. 


SCALLY 


193 

“My name is Caversham,” he said. “I happen 
to be a director of the company. If you will give 
me your name and address I will see to it that 
your services to-night are suitably recognized. 
The way you got those two children out of the 
first coach was splendid, if I may be allowed to 
say so. We did not even know they were there.” 

The young man’s teeth suddenly flashed out 
into a white smile against the blackness of his face. 

“Neither did I, sir,” he said. “Let me intro¬ 
duce you to the responsible party.” 

He whistled. Out of the gray dawn loomed an 
eerie monster, badly singed, wagging its tail. 

“Scally, old man,” said the curate, “this gentle¬ 
man wants to present you with an illuminated ad¬ 
dress. Thank him prettily!” Then, to the doctor: 
“I’m ever so much obliged to you; it’s quite com¬ 
fortable now.” 

He began stiffly to pull on his coat and waist¬ 
coat. Lord Caversham, lending a hand, noted the 
waistcoat and said quickly : 

“Will you travel in my compartment? I should 
like to have a word with you if I may.” 

“I think I had better go and have a look at 
those poor folks in the sleeper first,” replied the 
curate. “They may require my services profes¬ 
sionally.” 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


194 

“At the Junction, then, perhaps?” suggested 
Lord Caversham. 

At the Junction, however, the curate found a 
special waiting to proceed north by a loop line; 
and, being in no mind to receive compliments or 
waste his substance on a hotel, he departed forth¬ 
with, taking his charred confederate, Excalibur, 
with him. 

VIII 

Fortune, once she takes a fancy to you, is not 
readily shaken off, however, as most successful 
men are always trying to forget. A fortnight later 
Lord Caversham, leaving his hotel in a great 
northern town, encountered an acquaintance he 
had no difficulty whatever in recognizing. 

It was Excalibur, jammed fast between two 
stationary tramcars — he had not yet shaken 
down to town life — submitting to a painful but 
effective process of extraction at the hands of a 
posse of policemen and tram conductors, shrilly 
directed by a small but commanding girl of the 
lodging-house-drudge variety. 

When this enterprise had been brought to a suc¬ 
cessful conclusion and the congested traffic moved 
on by the overheated policemen, Lord Caversham 
crossed the street and tapped the damsel on the 
shoulder. 


SCALLY 


195 

“Can you kindly inform me where the owner of 
that dog may be found?” he inquired politely. 

“Yas. Se’nty-one Pilgrim Street. But’e won’t 
sell him.” 

“Should I be likely to find him at home if I 
called now?” 

“Yas. Bin in bed since the accident. Got a 
nasty arm.” 

“Perhaps you would not mind accompanying 
me back to Pilgrim Street in my car?” 

After that Mary Ellen’s mind became an in¬ 
coherent blur. A stately limousine glided up; 
Mary Ellen was handed in by a footman and Ex- 
calibur was stuffed in after her in installments. 
The grand gentleman entered by the opposite 
door and sat down beside her; but Mary Ellen 
was much too dazed to converse with him. 

The arrival of the equipage in Pilgrim Street 
was the greatest moment of Mary Ellen’s life. 

Meantime upstairs in the first-floor front the 
curate, lying in his uncomfortable flock bed, was 
saying: 

“If you really mean it, sir — ” 

“ I do mean it. If those two children had been 
burned to death unnoticed, I should never have 
forgiven myself, and the public would never have 
forgiven the company.” 


196 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

“Well, sir, since you say that, you — well, you 
could do me a service. Could you possibly use 
your influence to get me a billet — I’m not asking 
for an incumbency; any old curacy would do — 
a billet I could marry on?” He flushed scarlet. 
“I — we have been waiting a long time now.” 

There was a long silence, and the curate won¬ 
dered whether he had been too mercenary in his 
request. Then Lord Caversham asked: 

“What are you getting at present?” 

“A hundred and twenty a year.” 

This was about two thirds of the salary Lord 
Caversham paid his chauffeur. He asked another 
question in his curious, abrupt staccato manner: 

“How much do you want?” 

“We could make both ends meet on two hun¬ 
dred ; but another fifty would enable me to make 
her a lot more comfortable,” said the curate wist¬ 
fully. 

The great man surveyed him silently — won- 
deringly, too, if the curate had known. Presently 
he asked: 

“Afraid of hard work?” 

“No work is hard to a man with a wife and a 
home of his own,” replied the curate with simple 
fervor. 

Lord Caversham smiled grimly. He had more 


SCALLY 


197 

homes of his own than he could conveniently live 
in, and he had been married three times; but even 
he found work hard now and then. 

“I wonder!” he said. “Well, good-afternoon. 
I should like to be introduced to your fiancee some 
day.” 

IX 

A tramp opened the rectory gate and shambled 
up the neat gravel walk toward the house. Tak¬ 
ing a short cut through the shrubbery he emerged 
suddenly on a little lawn. 

On the lawn a lady was sitting in a basket chair 
beside a perambulator, the occupant of which was 
slumbering peacefully. A small but intensely 
capable nursemaid, prone on the grass in a cur¬ 
vilinear attitude, was acting as tunnel to a young 
gentleman of three who was impersonating a loco¬ 
motive. 

The tramp approached the group and asked 
huskily for alms. He was a burly and unpleasant 
specimen of his class — a class all too numerous 
on the outskirts of the great industrial parish of 
Smeltingborough. The lady in the basket chair 
looked up. 

“The rector is out,” she said. “If you go into 
the town you will find him at the Church Hall and 
he will investigate your case.” 


198 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

“Oh, the rector is out, is he?” repeated the 
tramp in tones of distinct satisfaction. 

“Yes,” said Eileen. 

The tramp advanced another pace. 

“Give us half a crown!” he said. “I haven’t 
had a bite of food since yesterday, lady — nor a 
drink neither,” he added humorously. 

“Please go away!” said the lady. “You know 
where to find the rector.” 

The tramp smiled unpleasantly, but made no 
attempt to move. 

“You refuse to go away?” the lady said. 

"Ill go for half a crown,” replied the tramp 
with the gracious air of one anxious to oblige a 
lady. 

“Watch baby for a moment, Mary Ellen,” said 
Eileen. 

She rose and disappeared into the house, fol¬ 
lowed by the gratified smile of the tramp. He was 
a reasonable man and knew that ladies did not 
wear pockets. 

“Thirsty weather,” he remarked affably. 

Mary Ellen, keeping one hand on the shoul¬ 
der of Master Gerald Caversham Gilmore and 
the other on the edge of the baby’s perambulator, 
merely chuckled sardonically. 

The next moment there were footsteps round 


SCALLY 


199 

the corner of the house and Eileen reappeared. 
She was clinging with both hands to the collar 
of an enormous dog. Its tongue lolled from its 
great jaws; its tail waved menacingly from side to 
side; its great limbs were bent as though for a 
spring. Its eyes were half closed as though to 
focus the exact distance. 

“Run!” cried Eileen to the tramp. “I can’t 
hold him in much longer!” 

This was true enough, except that when Eileen 
said “in” she meant “up.” But the tramp did 
not linger to discuss grammar. There was a 
scurry of feet, the gate banged, and he was gone. 

With a sigh of relief Eileen let go of Excali- 
bur’s collar. Excalibur promptly collapsed on 
the grass and went to sleep again. 


THE VAGABONDS 


We are two travelers, Roger and I. 

Roger’s my dog. — Come here, you scamp! 
Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye! 

Over the table, — look out for the lamp! 

The rogue is growing a little old; 

Five years we’ve tramped through wind and 
weather, 

And slept outdoors when nights were cold, 

And ate and drank — and starved — together. 

We’ve learned what comfort is, I tell you! 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! 

The paw he holds up there’s been frozen). 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 

(This out-door business is bad for strings), 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, 
And Roger and I set up for kings! 

No, thank ye, Sir, — I never drink; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, — 

Aren’t we, Roger? — See him wink! — 

Well, something hot then, — we won’t quarrel. 


THE VAGABONDS 


201 


He’s thirsty, too, — see him nod his head? 

What a pity, Sir, that dogs can’t talk! 

He understands every word that’s said, — 

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. 

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, 

I’ve been so sadly given to grog, 

I wonder I’ve not lost the respect 
(Here’s to you, Sir!) even of my dog. 

But he sticks by, through thick and thin; 

And this old coat, with its empty pockets, 

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He’ll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 

There isn’t another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 

To such a miserable, thankless master! 

No, Sir! — See him wag his tail and grin! 

By George! it makes my old eyes water 
That is, there’s something in this gin 
That chokes a fellow. But no matter! 

We’ll have some music, if you’re willing, 

And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, Sir!) 
Shall march a little. — Start, you villain! 

Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer! 


202 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

’Bout face! Attention! Take your rifle! 

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold 
your 

Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier! 

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes 
When he stands up to hear his sentence. 

Now tell us how many drams it takes 
To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 

Five yelps, — that’s five; he’s mighty knowing! 
The night’s before us, fill the glasses! — 

Quick, Sir! I’m ill — my brain is going! — 

Some brandy, — thank you, — there! — it 
passes! 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
This pain; then Roger and I will start. 

I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing in place of a heart? 

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, 
No doubt, remembering things that were, — 

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I’m better now; that glass was warming. — 

You rascal! limber your lazy feet! 


THE VAGABONDS 


203 


We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street. — 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, 
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; 
The sooner, the better for Roger and me! 

John Townsend Trowbridge 





ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 

By 

Wilfred Thomason Grenfell 




ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 

It was Easter Sunday at St. Anthony in the year 
1908, but with us in northern Newfoundland still 
winter. Everything was covered with snow and 
ice. I was walking back after morning service, 
when a boy came running over from the hospital 
with the news that a large team of dogs had come 
from sixty miles to the southward, to get a doctor 
on a very urgent case. It was that of a young man 
on whom we had operated about a fortnight be¬ 
fore for an acute bone disease in the thigh. The 
people had allowed the wound to close, the poi¬ 
soned matter had accumulated, and we thought 
we should have to remove the leg. There was ob¬ 
viously, therefore, no time to be lost. So, having 
packed up the necessary instruments, dressings, 
and drugs, and having fitted out the dog-sleigh 
with my best dogs, I started at once, the mes¬ 
sengers following me with their team. 












20 $ THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

My team was an especially good one. On many 
a long journey they had stood by me and pulled 
me out of difficulties by their sagacity and endur¬ 
ance. To a lover of his dogs, as every Christian 
man must be, each one had become almost as pre¬ 
cious as a child to its mother. They were beautiful 
beasts: “Brin,” the cleverest leader on the coast; 
“Doc,” a large, gentle beast, the backbone of the 
team for power; “Spy,” a wiry, powerful black- 
and-white dog; “Moody,” a lop-eared black- 
and-tan, in his third season, a plodder that never 
looked behind him; “Watch,” the youngster of 
the team, long-legged and speedy, with great 
liquid eyes and a Gordon-setter coat; “Sue,” a 
large, dark Eskimo, the image of a great black 
wolf, with her sharp-pointed and perpendicular 
ears, for she “harked back” to her wild ancestry; 
“Jerry,” a large roan-colored slut, the quickest of 
all my dogs on her feet, and so affectionate that 
her overtures of joy had often sent me sprawling 
on my back; “Jack,” a jet-black, gentle-natured 
dog, more like a retriever, that always ran next 
the sledge, and never looked back, but everlast¬ 
ingly pulled straight ahead, running always with 
his nose to the ground. 

It was late in April, when there is always the 
risk of getting wet through the ice, so that I was 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 209 

carefully prepared with spare outfit, which in¬ 
cluded a change of garments, snowshoes, rifle, 
compass, axe, and oilskin overclothes. The mes¬ 
sengers were anxious that their team should travel 
back with mine, for they were slow at best and 
needed a lead. My dogs, however, being a power¬ 
ful team, could not be held back, and though I man¬ 
aged to wait twice for their sleigh, I had reached a 
village about twenty miles on the journey before 
nightfall, and had fed the dogs, and was gathering 
a few people for prayers when they caught me up. 

During the night the wind shifted to the north¬ 
east, which brought in fog and rain, softened the 
snow, and made traveling very bad, besides heav¬ 
ing a heavy sea into the bay. Our drive next 
morning would be somewhat over forty miles, 
the first ten miles on an arm of the sea, on salt¬ 
water ice. 

In order not to be separated too long from my 
friends, I sent them ahead two hours before me, 
appointing a rendezvous in a log tilt that we have 
built in the woods as a halfway house. There is no 
one living on all that long coast-line, and to pro¬ 
vide against accidents — which have happened 
more than once — we built this hut in which to 
keep dry clothing, food, and drugs. 

The first rain of the year was falling when I 


210 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

started, and I was obliged to keep on what we call 
the “ balHeaters,” or ice barricades, much farther 
up the bay than I had expected. The sea of the 
night before had smashed the ponderous cover¬ 
ing of ice right to the land wash. There were 
great gaping chasms between the enormous blocks, 
which we call pans, and half a mile out it was all 
clear water. 

An island three miles out had preserved a 
bridge of ice, however, and by crossing a few 
cracks I managed to reach it. From the island 
it was four miles across to a rocky promontory 
— a course that would be several miles shorter 
than going round the shore. Here as far as the 
eye could reach the ice seemed good, though it was 
very rough. Obviously, it had been smashed up 
by the sea and then packed in again by the strong 
wind from the northeast, and I thought it had 
frozen together solid. 

All went well till I was about a quarter of a mile 
from the landing-point. Then the wind suddenly 
fell, and I noticed that I was traveling over loose 
“sish,” which was like porridge and probably 
many feet deep. By stabbing down, I could 
drive my whip-handle through the thin coating 
of young ice that was floating on it. The sish ice 
consists of the tiny fragments where the large 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 211 

pans have been pounding together on the heaving 
sea, like the stones of Freya’s grinding mill. 

So quickly did the wind now come off shore, 
and so quickly did the packed “slob,” relieved 
of the wind pressure, “run abroad,” that already 
I could not see one pan larger than ten feet 
square; moreover, the ice was loosening so rapidly 
that I saw that retreat was absolutely impossible. 
Neither was there any way to get off the little pan 
I was surveying from. 

There was not a moment to lose. I tore off my 
oilskins, threw myself on my hands and knees by 
the side of the komatik to give a larger base to 
hold, and shouted to my team to go ahead for the 
shore. Before we had gone twenty yards, the dogs 
got frightened, hesitated for a moment, and the 
komatik instantly sank into the slob. It was neces¬ 
sary then for the dogs to pull much harder, so that 
they now began to sink in also. 

Earlier in the season the father of the very boy 
I was going to operate on had been drowned in 
this same way, his dogs tangling their traces 
around him in the slob. This flashed into my 
mind, and I managed to loosen my sheath-knife, 
scramble forward, find the traces in the water, and 
cut them, holding on to the leader’s trace wound 
round my wrist. 


212 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


Being in the water I could see no piece of ice 
that would bear anything up. But there was as it 
happened a piece of snow, frozen together like a 
large snowball, about twenty-five yards away, 
near where my leading dog, “ Brin,” was wallowing 
in the slob. Upon this he very shortly climbed, 
his long trace of ten fathoms almost reaching there 
before he went into the water. 

This dog has weird black markings on his face, 
giving him the appearance of wearing a perpetual 
grin. After climbing out on the snow as if it were 
the most natural position in the world, he deliber¬ 
ately shook the ice and water from his long coat, 
and then turned round to look for me. As he sat 
perched up there out of the water, he seemed to be 
grinning with satisfaction. The other dogs were 
hopelessly bogged. Indeed, we were like flies in 
treacle. 

Gradually, I hauled myself along the line that 
was still tied to my wrist, till without any warning 
the dog turned round and slipped out of his har¬ 
ness, and then once more turned his grinning face 
to where I was struggling. 

It was impossible to make any progress through 
the sish ice by swimming, so I lay there and 
thought all would soon be over, only wondering 
if any one would ever know how it happened. 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 213 

There was no particular horror attached to it, and 
in fact I began to feel drowsy, as if I could easily 
go to sleep, when suddenly I saw the trace of an¬ 
other big dog that had himself gone through be¬ 
fore he reached the pan, and, though he was close 
to it, was quite unable to force his way out. Along 
this I hauled myself, using him as a bow anchor, 
but much bothered by other dogs as I passed 
them, one of which got on my shoulder, pushing 
me farther down into the ice. There was only a 
yard or so more when I had passed my living an¬ 
chor, and soon I lay with my dogs around me on 
the little piece of slob ice. I had to help them on 
to it, working them through the lane that I had 
made. 

The piece of ice we were on was so small it was 
obvious we must soon all be drowned, if we re¬ 
mained upon it as it drifted seaward into more 
open water. If we were to save our lives, no time 
was to be lost. When I stood up, I could see about 
twenty yards away a larger pan floating amidst 
the sish, like a great flat raft, and if we could get 
on to it, we should postpone at least for a time the 
death that already seemed almost inevitable. It 
was impossible to reach it without a life line, as I 
had already learned to my cost, and the next pro¬ 
blem was how to get one there. Marvelous to re- 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


214 

late, when I had first fallen through, after I had 
cut the dogs adrift without any hope left of saving 
myself, I had not let my knife sink, but had fas¬ 
tened it by two half-hitches to the back of one of 
the dogs. To my great joy there it was still, and 
shortly I was at work cutting all the sealskin 
traces still hanging from the dogs’ harnesses, and 
splicing them together into one long line. These 
I divided and fastened to the backs of my two 
leaders, tying the near ends around my two wrists. 
I then pointed out to “Brin” the pan I wanted to 
reach and tried my best to make them go ahead, 
giving them the full length of my lines from two 
coils. My long sealskin moccasins, reaching to my 
thigh, were full of ice and water. These I took off 
and tied separately on the dogs’ backs. My coat, 
hat, gloves, and overalls I had already lost. At 
first, nothing would induce the two dogs to move, 
and though I threw them off the pan two or three 
times, they struggled back upon it, which perhaps 
was only natural, because, as soon as they fell 
through, they could see nowhere else to make for. 
To me, however, this seemed to spell “the end.” 
Fortunately, I had with me a small black spaniel, 
almost a featherweight, with large furry paws, 
called “Jack,” who acts as my mascot and in¬ 
cidentally as my retriever. This at once flashed 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 215 

into my mind, and I felt I had still one more 
chance for life. So I spoke to him and showed him 
the direction, and then threw a piece of ice to¬ 
ward the desired goal. Without a moment’s hes¬ 
itation he made a dash for it, and to my great joy 
got there safely, the tough scale of sea ice carrying 
his weight bravely. At once I shouted to him to 
“lie down,” and this, too, he immediately did, 
looking like a little black fuzz ball on the white 
setting. My leaders could now see him seated 
there on the new piece of floe, and when once 
more I threw them off they understood what I 
wanted, and fought their way to where they saw 
the spaniel, carrying with them the line that gave 
me the one chance for my life. The other dogs 
followed them, and after painful struggling, all 
got out again except one. Taking all the run that 
I could get on my little pan, I made a dive, slith¬ 
ering with the impetus along the surface till once 
more I sank through. After a long fight, however, 
I was able to haul myself by the long traces on to 
this new pan, having taken care beforehand to tie 
the harnesses to which I was holding under the dogs’ 
bellies, so that they could not slip them off. But 
alas! the pan I was now on was not large enough 
to bear us and was already beginning to sink, so 
this process had to be repeated immediately. 


216 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

I now realized that, though we had been work¬ 
ing toward the shore, we had been losing ground 
all the time, for the off-shore wind had already 
driven us a hundred yards farther out. But the 
widening gap kept full of the pounded ice, through 
which no man could possibly go. 

I had decided I would rather stake my chances 
on a long swim even than perish by inches on the 
floe, as there was no likelihood whatever of being 
seen and rescued. But, keenly though I watched, 
not a streak even of clear water appeared, the in¬ 
terminable sish rising from below and filling every 
gap as it appeared. We were now resting on a 
piece of ice about ten by twelve feet, which, as I 
found when I came to examine it, was not ice at all, 
but simply snow-covered slob frozen into a mass, 
and I feared it would very soon break up in the 
general turmoil of the heavy sea, which was in¬ 
creasing as the ice drove off shore before the wind. 

At first we drifted in the direction of a rocky 
point on which a heavy surf was breaking. Here I 
thought once again to swim ashore. But suddenly 
we struck a rock. A large piece broke off the al¬ 
ready small pan, and what was left swung round 
in the backwash, and started right out to sea. 

There was nothing for it now but to hope for a 
rescue. Alas! there was little possibility of being 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 217 

seen. As I have already mentioned, no one lives 
around this big bay. My only hope was that the 
other komatik, knowing I was alone and had 
failed to keep my tryst, would perhaps come back 
to look for me. This, however, as it proved, they 
did not do. 

The westerly wind was rising all the time, our 
coldest wind at this time of the year, coming as it 
does over the Gulf ice. It was tantalizing, as I 
stood with next to nothing on, the wind going 
through me and every stitch soaked in ice-water, 
to see my well-stocked komatik some fifty yards 
away. It was still above water, with food, hot tea 
in a thermos bottle, dry clothing, matches, wood, 
and everything on it for making a fire to attract 
attention. 

It is easy to see a dark object on the ice in the 
daytime, for the gorgeous whiteness shows off the 
least thing. But the tops of bushes and large 
pieces of kelp have often deceived those looking 
out. Moreover, within our memory no man has 
been thus adrift on the bay ice. The chances 
were about one in a thousand that I should be 
seen at all, and if I were seen, I should probably 
be mistaken for some piece of refuse. 

To keep from freezing, I cut off my long moc¬ 
casins down to the feet, strung out some line, split 


218 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


the legs, and made a kind of jacket, which protected 
my back from the wind down as far as the waist. 
I have this jacket still, and my friends assure me 
it would make a good Sunday garment. 

I had not drifted more than half a mile before I 
saw my poor komatik disappear through the ice, 
which was every minute loosening up into the 
small pans that it consisted of, and it seemed like 
a friend gone and one more tie with home and 
safety lost. To the northward, about a mile dis¬ 
tant, lay the mainland along which I had passed 
so merrily in the morning — only, it seemed, a 
few moments before. 

By mid-day I had passed the island to which I 
had crossed on the ice bridge. I could see that the 
bridge was gone now. If I could reach the island, 
I should only be marooned and destined to die of 
starvation. But there was little chance of that, 
for I was rapidly driving into the ever widening 
bay. 

It was scarcely safe to move on my small ice 
raft, for fear of breaking it. Yet I saw I must have 
the skins of some of my dogs — of which I had 
eight on the pan — if I was to live the night out. 
There was now some three to five miles between 
me and the north side of the bay. There, im¬ 
mense pans of Arctic ice, surging to and fro on the 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 219 

heavy ground seas, were thundering into the cliffs 
like medieval battering-rams. It was evident that, 
even if seen, I could hope for no help from that 
quarter before night. No boat could live through 
the surf. 

Unwinding the sealskin traces from my waist, 
round which I had wound them to keep the dogs 
from eating them, I made a slip-knot, passed it 
over the first dog’s head, tied it round my foot 
close to his neck, threw him on his back, and 
stabbed him in the heart. Poor beast! I loved him 
like a friend — a beautiful dog — but we could 
not all hope to live. In fact, I had no hope any of 
us would, at that time, but it seemed better to die 
fighting. 

In spite of my care the struggling dog bit me 
rather badly in the leg. I suppose my numb hands 
prevented my holding his throat as I could or¬ 
dinarily do. Moreover, I must hold the knife in 
the wound to the end, as blood on the fur would 
freeze solid and make the skin useless. In this 
way I sacrificed two more large dogs, receiving only 
one more bite, though I fully expected that the 
pan I was on would break up in the struggle. 
The other dogs, who were licking their coats and 
trying to get dry, apparently took no notice of the 
fate of their comrades — but I was very careful to 


220 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


prevent the dying dogs crying out, for the noise 
of fighting would probably have been followed by 
the rest attacking the down dog and that was too 
close to me to be pleasant. A short shrift seemed 
to me better than a long one, and I envied the 
dead dogs whose troubles were over so quickly. 
Indeed, I came to balance in my mind whether, if 
once I passed into the open sea, it would not be 
better by far to use my faithful knife on myself 
than to die by inches. There seemed no hardship 
in the thought. I seemed fully to sympathize 
with the Japanese view of hara-kiri. 

Working, however, saved me from philosophiz¬ 
ing. By the time I had skinned these dogs, and 
with my knife and some of the harness had strung 
the skins together, I was ten miles on my way, 
and it was getting dark. 

Away to the northward I could see a single 
light in the little village where I had slept the 
night before, where I had received the kindly hos¬ 
pitality of the simple fishermen in whose com¬ 
fortable homes I have spent many a night. I 
could not help but think of them sitting down to 
tea, with no idea that there was any one watching 
them, for I had told them not to expect me back 
for three days. 

Meanwhile I had frayed out a small piece of 


221 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 

rope into oakum, and mixed it with fat from the 
intestines of my dogs. Alas, my match-box, 
which was always chained to me, had leaked, and 
my matches were in pulp. Had I been able to 
make a light, it would have looked so unearthly 
out there on the sea that I felt sure they would 
see me. But that chance was now cut off. How¬ 
ever, I kept the matches, hoping that I might dry 
them if I lived through the night. While working 
at the dogs, about every five minutes I would 
stand up and wave my hands toward the land. I 
had no flag, and I could not spare my shirt, for, 
wet as it was, it was better than nothing in 
that freezing wind, and, anyhow, it was already 
nearly dark. 

Unfortunately, the coves in among the cliffs 
are so placed that only for a very narrow space can 
the people in any house see the sea. Indeed, most 
of them cannot see it at all, so that I could not in 
the least expect any one to see me, even supposing 
it had been daylight. 

Not daring to take any snow from the surface 
of my pan to break the wind with, I piled up the 
carcasses of my dogs. With my skin rug I could 
now sit down without getting soaked. During 
these hours I had continually taken off my 
clothes, wrung them out, swung them one by one 


222 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


in the wind, and put on first one and then the 
other inside, hoping that what heat there was in 
my body would thus serve to dry them. In this I 
had been fairly successful. 

My feet gave me most trouble, for they imme¬ 
diately got wet again because my thin moccasins 
were easily soaked through on the snow. I sud¬ 
denly thought of the way in which the Lapps who 
tend our reindeer manage for dry socks. They 
carry grass with them, which they ravel up and 
pad into their shoes. Into this they put their feet, 
and then pack the rest with more grass, tying up 
the top with a binder. The ropes of the harness 
for our dogs are carefully sewed all over with 
two layers of flannel in order to make them soft 
against the dogs’ sides. So, as soon as I could sit 
down, I started with my trusty knife to rip up the 
flannel. Though my fingers were more or less 
frozen, I was able also to ravel out the rope, 
put it into my shoes, and use my wet socks inside 
my knickerbockers, where, though damp, they 
served to break the wind. Then, tying the nar¬ 
row strips of flannel together, I bound up the top 
of the moccasins, Lapp-fashion, and carried the 
bandage on up over my knee, making a ragged 
though most excellent puttee. 

As to the garments I wore, I had opened re- 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 223 

cently a box of football clothes I had not seen for 
twenty years. I had found my old Oxford Uni¬ 
versity football running shorts and a pair of Rich¬ 
mond Football Club red, yellow, and black stock¬ 
ings, exactly as I wore them twenty years ago. 
These with a flannel shirt and sweater vest were 
now all I had left. Coat, hat, gloves, oilskins, 
everything else, were gone, and I stood there in that 
odd costume, exactly as I stood twenty years ago 
on a football field, reminding me of the little girl 
of a friend, who, when told she was dying, asked 
to be dressed in her Sunday frock to go to heaven 
in. My costume, being very light, dried all the 
quicker, until afternoon. Then nothing would 
dry any more, everything freezing stiff. It had 
been an ideal costume to struggle through the 
slob ice. I really believe the conventional gar¬ 
ments missionaries are supposed to affect would 
have been fatal. 

My occupation till what seemed like midnight 
was unraveling rope, and with this I padded out 
my knickers inside, and my shirt as well, though 
it was a clumsy job, for I could not see what I was 
doing. Now, getting my largest dog, Doc, as big 
as a wolf and weighing ninety-two pounds, I made 
him lie down, so that I could cuddle round him. 
I then wrapped the three skins around me, arrang- 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


224 

ing them so that I could lie on one edge, while the 
other came just over my shoulders and head. 

My own breath collecting inside the newly 
flayed skin must have had a soporific effect, for 
I was soon fast asleep. One hand I had kept 
warm against the curled up dog, but the other, 
being gloveless, had frozen, and I suddenly awoke, 
shivering enough, I thought, to break my fragile 
pan. What I took at first to be the sun was just 
rising, but I soon found it was the moon, and then 
I knew it was about half-past twelve. The dog 
was having an excellent time. He hadn’t been 
cuddled so warm all winter, and he resented my 
moving with low growls till he found it wasn’t an¬ 
other dog. 

The wind was steadily driving me now toward 
the open sea, and I could expect, short of a 
miracle, nothing but death out there. Somehow, 
one scarcely felt justified in praying for a mira¬ 
cle. But we have learned down here to pray for 
things we want, and, anyhow, just at that mo¬ 
ment the miracle occurred. The wind fell off sud¬ 
denly, and came with a light air from the south¬ 
ward, and then dropped stark calm. The ice was 
now “all abroad,” which I was sorry for, for there 
was a big safe pan not twenty yards away from 
me. If I could have got on that, I might have 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 225 

killed my other dogs when the time came, and 
with their coats I could hope to hold out for two 
or three days more, and with the food and drink 
their bodies would offer me need not at least die of 
hunger or thirst. To tell the truth, they were so 
big and strong I was half afraid to tackle them 
with only a sheath-knife on my small and un¬ 
stable raft. 

But it was now freezing hard. I knew the calm 
water between us would form into cakes, and I 
had to recognize that the chance of getting near 
enough to escape on to it was gone. If, on the 
other hand, the whole bay froze again I had yet 
another possible chance. For my pan would hold 
together longer and I should be opposite another 
village, called Goose Cove, at daylight, and 
might possibly be seen from there. I knew that 
the komatiks there would be starting at daybreak 
over the hills for a parade of Orangemen about 
twenty miles away. Possibly, therefore, I might 
be seen as they climbed the hills. So I lay down, 
and went to sleep again. 

It seems impossible to say how long one sleeps, 
but I woke with a sudden thought in my mind 
that I must have a flag; but again I had no pole 
and no flag. However, I set to work in the dark to 
disarticulate the legs of my dead dogs, which were 


226 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


now frozen stiff, and which were all that offered a 
chance of carrying anything like a distress signal. 
Cold as it was, I determined to sacrifice my shirt 
for that purpose with the first streak of daylight. 

It took a long time in the dark to get the legs 
off, and when I had patiently marled them to¬ 
gether with old harness rope and the remains of 
the skin traces, it was the heaviest and crooked- 
est flag-pole it has ever been my lot to see. I had 
had no food from six o’clock the morning before, 
when I had eaten porridge and bread and but¬ 
ter. I had, however, a rubber band which I had 
been wearing instead of one of my garters, and I 
chewed that for twenty-four hours. It saved me 
from thirst and hunger, oddly enough. It was not 
possible to get a drink from my pan, for it was far 
too salty. But anyhow that thought did not dis¬ 
tress me much, for as from time to time I heard 
the cracking and grinding of the newly formed 
slob, it seemed that my devoted boat must in¬ 
evitably soon go to pieces. 

At last the sun rose, and the time came for the 
sacrifice of my shirt. So I stripped, and, much to 
my surprise, found it not half so cold as I had an¬ 
ticipated. I now re-formed my dogskins with the 
raw side out, so that they made a kind of coat 
quite rivaling Joseph’s. But, with the rising of 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 227 
the sun, the frost came out of the joints of my 
dogs’ legs, and the friction caused by waving it 
made my flag-pole almost tie itself in knots. 
Still, I could raise it three or four feet above my 
head, which was very important. 

Now, however, I found that instead of being 
as far out at sea as I had reckoned, I had drifted 
back in a northwesterly direction, and was off 
some cliffs known as Ireland Head. Near these 
there was a little village looking seaward, whence 
I should certainly have been seen. But, as I had 
myself, earlier in the winter, been nightbound at 
this place, I had learnt there was not a single soul 
living there at all this winter. The people had all, 
as usual, migrated to the winter houses up the 
bay, where they get together for schooling and 
social purposes. 

I soon found it was impossible to keep waving 
so heavy a flag all the time, and yet I dared not 
sit down, for that might be the exact moment 
some one would be in a position to see me from 
the hills. The only thing in my mind was how 
long I could stand up and how long go on waving 
that pole at the cliffs. Once or twice I thought 
I saw men against their snowy faces, which, I 
judged, were about five and a half miles from me, 
but they were only trees. Once, also, I thought I 


228 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


saw a boat approaching. A glittering object kept 
appearing and disappearing on the water, but it 
was only a small piece of ice sparkling in the sun 
as it rose on the surface. I think that the rocking 
of my cradle up and down on the waves had 
helped me to sleep, for I felt as well as ever I did 
in my life; and with the hope of a long sunny day, 
I felt sure I was good to last another twenty-four 
hours — if my boat would hold out and not rot 
under the sun's rays. 

Each time I sat down to rest, my big dog 
“ Doc" came and kissed my face and then walked 
to the edge of the ice-pan, returning again to 
where I was huddled up, as if to say, “Why don’t 
you come along? Surely it is time to start." The 
other dogs also were now moving about very rest¬ 
lessly, occasionally trying to satisfy their hunger 
by gnawing at the dead bodies of their brothers. 

I determined, at mid-day, to kill a big Eskimo 
dog and drink his blood, as I had read only a few 
days before in “Farthest North" of Dr. Nansen’s 
doing — that is, if I survived the battle with him. 
I could not help feeling, even then, my ludicrous 
position, and I thought, if ever I got ashore again, 
I should have to laugh at myself standing hour after 
hour waving my shirt at those lofty cliffs, which 
seemed to assume a kind of sardonic grin, so that 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 229 

I could almost imagine they were laughing at me. 
At times I could not help thinking of the good 
breakfast that my colleagues were enjoying at 
the back of those same cliffs, and of the snug 
fire and the comfortable room which we call our 
study. 

I can honestly say that from first to last not a 
single sensation of fear entered my mind, even 
when I was struggling in the slob ice. Somehow it 
did not seem unnatural; I had been through the 
ice half a dozen times before. For the most part 
I felt very sleepy, and the idea was then very 
strong in my mind that I should soon reach the 
solution of the mysteries that I had been preach¬ 
ing about for so many years. 

Only the previous night (Easter Sunday) at 
prayers in the cottage, we had been discussing the 
fact that the soul was entirely separate from the 
body, that Christ’s idea of the body as the tem¬ 
ple in which the soul dwells is so amply borne out 
by modern science. We had talked of thoughts 
from that admirable book, “Brain and Personal¬ 
ity,’’ by Dr. Thompson of New York, and also of 
the same subject in the light of a recent operation 
performed at the Johns Hopkins Hospital by Dr. 
Harvey Cushing. The doctor had removed from 
a man’s brain tw o large cystic tumors without giv- 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


230 

ing the man an anaesthetic, and the patient had 
kept up a running conversation with him all the 
while the doctor’s fingers were working in his 
brain. It had seemed such a striking proof that 
ourselves and our bodies are two absolutely dif¬ 
ferent things. 

Our eternal life has always been with me a mat¬ 
ter of faith. It seems to me one of those problems 
that must always be a mystery to knowledge. 
But my own faith in this matter had been so un¬ 
troubled that it seemed now almost natural to be 
leaving through this portal of death from an ice- 
pan. In many ways, also, I could see how a death 
of this kind might be of value to the particular 
work that I am engaged in. Except for my friends, 
I had nothing I could think of to regret whatever. 
Certainly, I should like to have told them the 
story. But then one does not carry folios of paper 
in running shorts which have no pockets, and all 
my writing gear had gone by the board with the 
komatik. 

I could still see a testimonial to myself some 
distance away in my khaki overalls, which I had 
left on another pan in the struggle of the night 
before. They seemed a kind of company, and 
would possibly be picked up and suggest the 
true story. Running through my head all the 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 231 

time, quite unbidden, were the words of the old 
hymn: 

“My God, my Father, while I stray 
Far from my home on life’s dark way, 

Oh, teach me from my heart to say, 

Thy will be done!” 

It is a hymn we hardly ever sing out here, and it 
was an unconscious memory of my boyhood days. 

It was a perfect morning — a cobalt sky, an 
ultramarine sea, a golden sun, an almost wasteful 
extravagance of crimson over hills of purest snow, 
which caught a reflected glow from rock and crag. 
Between me and the hills lay miles of rough ice 
and long veins of thin black slob that had formed 
during the night. For the foreground there was 
my poor, gruesome pan, bobbing up and down on 
the edge of the open sea, stained with blood, and 
littered with carcasses and debris. It was smaller 
than last night, and I noticed also that the new ice 
from the water melted under the dogs’ bodies had 
been formed at the expense of its thickness. Five 
dogs, myself in colored football costume, and a 
bloody dogskin cloak, with a gay flannel shirt on 
a pole of frozen dogs’ legs, completed the picture. 
The sun was almost hot by now, and I was con¬ 
scious of a surplus of heat in my skin coat. I be¬ 
gan to look longingly at one of my remaining 
dogs, for an appetite will rise even on an ice-pan 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


232 

and that made me think of fire. So once again I 
inspected my matches. Alas! the heads were in 
paste, all but three or four blue-top wax ones. 

These I now laid out to dry, while I searched 
about on my snow-pan to see if I could get a piece 
of transparent ice to make a burning-glass. For I 
was pretty sure that with all the unraveled tow I 
had stuffed into my leggings, and with the fat of 
my dogs, I could make smoke enough to be seen 
if only I could get a light. I had found a piece 
which I thought would do, and had gone back to 
wave my flag, which I did every two minutes, 
when I suddenly thought I saw again the glitter of 
an oar. It did not seem possible, however, for it 
must be remembered it was not water which lay 
between me and the land, but slob ice, which a 
mile or two inside me was very heavy. Even if 
people had seen me, I did not think they could 
get through, though I knew that the whole shore 
would then be trying. Moreover, there was no 
smoke rising on the land to give me hope that I 
had been seen. There had been no gun-flashes in 
the night, and I felt sure that, had any one seen 
me, there would have been a bonfire on every hill 
to encourage me to keep going. 

So I gave it up, and went on with my work. 
But the next time I went back to my flag, the 



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ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 233 

glitter seemed very distinct, and though it kept 
disappearing as it rose and fell on the surface, I 
kept my eyes strained upon it, for my dark 
spectacles had been lost, and I was partly snow- 
blind. 

I waved my flag as high as I could raise it, 
broadside on. At last, beside the glint of the 
white oar, I made out the black streak of the hull. 
I knew that, if the pan held on for another hour, 
I should be all right. 

With that strange perversity of the human in¬ 
tellect, the first thing I thought of was what tro¬ 
phies I could carry with my luggage from the pan, 
and I pictured the dog-bone flagstaff adorning my 
study. (The dogs actually ate it afterwards.) I 
thought of preserving my ragged puttees with 
our collection of curiosities. I lost no time now at 
the burning-glass. My whole mind was devoted 
to making sure I should be seen, and I moved 
about as much as I dared on the raft, waving my 
sorry token aloft. 

At last there could be no doubt about it: the 
boat was getting nearer and nearer. I could see 
that my rescuers were frantically waving, and, 
when they came within shouting distance,I heard 
some one cry out, “Don’t get excited. Keep on 
the pan where you are.” They were infinitely 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


234 

more excited than I. Already to me it seemed just 
as natural now to be saved as, half an hour before, 
it had seemed inevitable I should be lost, and had 
my rescuers only known, as I did, the sensation of 
a bath in that ice when you could not dry your¬ 
self afterwards, they need not have expected me 
to follow the example of the Apostle Peter and 
throw myself into the water. 

As the man in the bow leaped from the boat on 
to my ice raft and grasped both my hands in his, 
not a word was uttered. I could see in his face the 
strong emotions he was trying hard to force back, 
though in spite of himself tears trickled down his 
cheeks. It was the same with each of the others of 
my rescuers, nor was there any reason to be 
ashamed of them. These were not the emblems 
of weak sentimentality, but the evidences of the 
realization of the deepest and noblest emotion of 
which the human heart is capable, the vision that 
God has use for us his creatures, the sense of that 
supreme joy of the Christ — the joy of unselfish 
service. After the hand-shake and swallowing a 
cup of warm tea that had been thoughtfully packed 
in a bottle, we hoisted in my remaining dogs and 
started for home. To drive the boat home there 
were not only five Newfoundland fishermen at 
the oars, but five men with Newfoundland muscles 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 235 

in their backs, and five as brave hearts as ever 
beat in the bodies of human beings. 

So, slowly but steadily, we forged through to 
the shore, now jumping out on to larger pans and 
forcing them apart with the oars, now hauling the 
boat out and dragging her over, when the jam of 
ice packed tightly in by the rising wind was im¬ 
possible to get through otherwise. 

My first question, when at last we found our 
tongues, was, ‘‘How ever did you happen to be 
out in the boat in this ice?” To my astonishment 
they told me that the previous night four men had 
been away on a long headland cutting out some 
dead harp seals that they had killed in the fall and 
left to freeze up in a rough wooden store they had 
built there, and that as they were leaving for 
home, my pan of ice had drifted out clear of Hare 
Island, and one of them, with his keen fisherman's 
eyes, had seen something unusual. They at once 
returned to their village, saying there was some¬ 
thing alive drifting out to sea on the floe ice. But 
their report had been discredited, for the people 
thought that it could be only the top of some tree. 

All the time I had been driving along I knew 
that there was one man on that coast who had a 
good spy-glass. He tells me he instantly got up 
in the midst of his supper, on hearing the news, 


236 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

and hurried over the cliffs to the lookout, carrying 
his trusty spy-glass with him. Immediately, dark 
as it was, he saw that without any doubt there 
was a man out on the ice. Indeed, he saw me 
wave my hands every now and again toward the 
shore. By a very easy process of reasoning on so 
uninhabited a shore, he at once knew who it was, 
though some of the men argued that it must be 
some one else. Little had I thought, as night was 
closing in, that away on that snowy hilltop lay a 
man with a telescope patiently searching those 
miles of ice for me. Hastily they rushed back to 
the village and at once went down to try to launch 
a boat, but that proved to be impossible. Miles of 
ice lay between them and me, the heavy sea was 
hurling great blocks on the landwash, and night 
was already falling, the wind blowing hard on 
shore. 

The whole village was aroused, and messengers 
were dispatched at once along the coast, and 
lookouts told off to all the favorable points, so 
that while I considered myself a laughing-stock, 
bowing with my flag to those unresponsive cliffs, 
there were really many eyes watching me. One 
man told me that with his glass he distinctly saw 
me waving the shirt flag. There was little slumber 
that night in the villages, and even the men told 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 237 

me there were few dry eyes, as they thought of the 
impossibility of saving me from perishing. We 
are not given to weeping overmuch on this shore, 
but there are tears that do a man honor. 

Before daybreak this fine volunteer crew had 
been got together. The boat, with such a force 
behind it of will power, would, I believe, have 
gone through anything. And, after seeing the 
heavy breakers through which we were guided, 
loaded with their heavy ice battering-rams, when 
at last we ran through the harbor-mouth with the 
boat on our return, I knew well what wives and 
children had been thinking of when they saw their 
loved ones put out. Only two years ago I remem¬ 
ber a fisherman’s wife watching her husband and 
three sons take out a boat to bring in a stranger 
that was showing flags for a pilot. But the boat 
and its occupants have not yet come back. 

Every soul in the village was on the beach as we 
neared the shore. Every soul was waiting to shake 
hands when I landed. Even with the grip that 
one after another gave me, some no longer trying 
to keep back the tears, I did not find out my hands 
were frost-burnt — a fact I have not been slow to 
appreciate since, however. I must have been a 
weird sight as I stepped ashore, tied up in rags, 
stuffed out with oakum, wrapped in the bloody 


238 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

skins of dogs, with no hat, coat, or gloves besides, 
and only a pair of short knickers. It must have 
seemed to some as if it were the Old Man of the 
Sea coming ashore. 

But no time was wasted before a pot of tea was 
exactly where I wanted it to be, and some hot 
stew was locating itself where I had intended an 
hour before the blood of one of my remaining 
dogs should have gone. 

Rigged out in the warm garments that fisher¬ 
men wear, I started with a large team as hard as 
I could race for the hospital, for I had learnt that 
the news had gone over that I was lost. It was 
soon painfully impressed upon me that I could 
not much enjoy the ride, for I had to be hauled 
like a log up the hills, my feet being frost-burnt so 
that I could not walk. Had I guessed this before 
going into the house, I might have avoided much 
trouble. 

It is time to bring this egotistic narrative to an 
end. “Jack” lies curled up by my feet while I 
write this short account. “Brin” is once again 
leading and lording it over his fellows. “Doc” 
and the other survivors are not forgotten, now 
that we have again returned to the less romantic 
episodes of a mission hospital life. There stands 
in our hallway a bronze tablet to the memory of 


ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 239 

three noble dogs, Moody, Watch, and Spy, whose 
lives were given for mine on the ice. In my home 
in England my brother has placed a duplicate 
tablet, and has added these words, “Not one of 
them is forgotten before your Father which is in 
heaven/’ And this I most fully believe to be true. 
The boy whose life I was intent on saving was 
brought to the hospital a day or two later in a 
boat, the ice having cleared off the coast not to 
return for that season. He was operated on suc¬ 
cessfully, and is even now on the high road to re¬ 
covery. We all love life. I was glad to be back 
once more with possibly a new lease of it before 
me. I had learned on the pan many things, but 
chiefly that the one cause for regret, when we 
look back on a life which we think is closed for¬ 
ever, will be the fact that we have wasted its op¬ 
portunities. As I went to sleep that first night 
there still rang in my ears the same verse of the 
old hymn which had been my companion on the 
ice, “Thy will, not mine, O Lord.” 


JUST OUR DOG 

He was just a dog, mister — that’s all; 

And all of us boys called him Bub; 

He was curly and not very tall 
And he hadn’t a tail — just a stub. 

His tail froze one cold night, you see; 

We just pulled the rest of him through. 

No — he didn’t have much pedigree — 
Perhaps that was frozen off, too. 

He always seemed quite well behaved, 

And he never had many bad fights; 

In summer he used to be shaved 
And he slept in the woodshed o’ nights. 
Sometimes he would wake up too soon 
And cry, if his tail got a chill; 

Some nights he would bark at the moon, 
But some nights he would sleep very still. 

He knew how to play hide-and-seek, 

And he always would come when you’d call 
He would play dead, roll over and speak, 
And learned it in no time at all. 

Sometimes he would growl, just in play, 

But he never would bite, and his worst 


241 


JUST OUR DOG 

Was to bark at the postman one day, 

But the postman, he barked at him first. 

He used to chase cats up a tree, 

But that was just only in fun; 

And a cat was as safe as could be — 
Unless it should start out to run; 
Sometimes he’d chase children and throw 
Them down, just while running along, 
And then lick their faces to show 
He didn’t mean anything wrong. 

He was chasing an automobile 
When the wheel hit him right in the side, 

So he just gave a queer little squeal 
And curled up and stretched out and died. 
His tail it was not very long, 

He was curly and not very tall, 

But he never did anything wrong — 

He was just our dog, mister — that’s all. 

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BARRY, THE DOG HERO OF THE 
SAINT BERNARD PASS 
By 

Eva March Tappan 



BARRY, THE DOG HERO OF THE 
SAINT BERNARD PASS 

Rather more than a hundred years ago there 
lived in Switzerland, just at the edge of the City 
of Berne, the most lovable little Saint Bernard 
puppy that was ever seen. His name was Barry. 
He had a big round head, a plump and somewhat 
unmanageable body that was always getting into 
his way, and paws so large that, when he tried to 
walk, he stumbled over them and sprawled on the 
floor. He had beautiful great brown eyes, and the 
most appealing little whimper that ever persuaded 
a dog's friends to give him whatever he wanted. 

Barry and his mother slept in a corner of the 
wide piazza, right under Carl’s window. He did 
not discover Carl at once, however, for there were 
so many interesting things on the piazza. There 
were piles of wood, bundles of straw, ploughs 
and rakes and harrows and baskets, even wagons. 
There was always room on the piazza, and so 
everything was put there that could not be 
crowded into the barns or sheds. 

Barry had to examine every one of these arti¬ 
cles, staring at them with solemn little wrinkles 
between his eyes, and sniffing at them with his 


246 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

pudgy little nose. After a while he began to notice 
queer sounds that came from within the house. 
There might be something there to play with, he 
thought, and one day, when the door was left 
open, he pushed in his inquisitive little nose and 
then his whole wriggling, inquisitive little body. 

The floor was very clean. Indeed, it was so well 
scrubbed that his clumsy paws slid out from under 
him in four different directions, and at last he sat 
down squarely in the middle of the room and looked 
around. Scarlet geraniums were growing in pots 
on the window-sills, but they did not look good 
to eat or to play with. There were straight-backed 
chairs and a table; but what they were for, Barry 
had not the least idea. One thing, however, did 
interest him so much that he wobbled over to it 
with his uncertain little paws to find out what it 
was. This was the big white porcelain stove. The 
fire was in a sort of furnace in the hall, but enough 
heat was brought into the big white stove so that 
Barry thought it was the most comfortable thing 
he had ever known, except, of course, his mother’s 
furry breast, and he snuggled up to it cozily, all 
ready to take a nap. 

A voice said, “Hallo, Barry!” He turned to see 
where it came from — which means that he top¬ 
pled over in a little heap. When he picked himself 


BARRY 


247 

up — that is, when he balanced himself on his four 
paws instead of on his back — the first thing he saw 
was a small slender hand stretched down from 
somewhere. Barry gazed at it. Of course, he had 
seen people before, and the people had hands; but 
the people were big and the hands were big and 
different from this one. He drew back at first, 
then went nearer. There was something about it 
that he liked, and he began to lick it. And when 
the hand patted the cover of the low couch and 
a boy’s voice said, “Come up, Barry!” he did his 
very best to obey, and stretched up on his un¬ 
steady little legs until he could rest his paws on 
the edge of the couch and look about. 

“You see, Barry,” said Ca^l, “ I’m all alone just 
now, and I need a little dog exactly like you to 
take care of me. I’m sick, but I’m going to be 
well pretty soon, and then we’ll do things, won’t 
we, though?” 

Barry waved his tail. “What a splendid boy 
that is!” he thought. “He’s as good as a puppy. 
I like him. I want to get up there beside him.” 
He did his very best to stretch himself up, the 
thin white hand gave what help it could, and in 
a minute or two, the little dog was snuggling up 
to his new friend, quite tired out with his efforts. 

As the boy grew stronger, they played all sorts 


248 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

of games together. They ran races, they played 
fetch and carry, they scampered up the driveway 
that led from the ground to the top floor of the 
barn. They went to the little lake and, much to 
his surprise, Barry found out that he could swim 
better than Carl. Best of all, they learned each 
other's language. When the puppy set out to chase 
a small kitten and Carl said, “No, Barry," he 
understood that this was one of the things for¬ 
bidden. If Carl said, “Find my ball and we will 
have a play," Barry knew that a good time was 
coming, and set off in high glee to find the ball. 

Carl understood the puppy just as well. If 
Barry laid his great paw on the boy’s knee and 
turned his head to look out of the window, Carl 
knew this meant, “Do, please, come out with 
me.” If Barry gave a short, quick bark, it meant, 
“I’m in a hurry.” If it was a long, deep one, it 
meant, “There’s something wrong.” Barry made 
one peculiar sound, neither bark nor whine. It 
began almost like a little lonesome sob, but it 
ended in a cry of joy. This was his greeting to 
Carl if the two had been separated for a while. 
The schoolchildren had a song called “The Bar¬ 
on’s Welcome,” and they called this cry “Barry’s 
welcome.” 

Barry was a happy dog, but after a while the 


BARRY 


249 

day came when Carl and an armful of books went 
away from the house early in the morning, and 
he was forbidden to follow. He sat down on the 
piazza in amazement. What could it mean? It 
must be a mistake, for of course he had a right to 
go wherever Carl went; and pretty soon he jumped 
up and ran after him as fast as ever he could. 

He was only a puppy, however, and very soon 
he lost the scent and wandered about, a little, 
forlorn, bewildered dog, roaming alone through 
the streets of Berne. He had never been there 
before. When he and Carl went out together, 
they went through the bright, sunny fields; but 
the streets of the city were quite different. In 
most of them the second story of the buildings 
extended to the verv edge of the sidewalk, and 
rested upon heavy square pillars. This made the 
walks dark and gloomy, and the poor little puppy 
began to feel afraid. 

Just then he came into an open square, and he 
heard what seemed somewhat like a cock crowing 
far up above his head. He did not know that this 
was only the famous clock of Berne, and when in a 
moment more it began to strike, the little lost dog 
was frightened almost out of his wits. He ran for 
his life, paying no attention to where he was go¬ 
ing, and soon he was more alarmed than ever, for 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


250 

right before him were some pits or sunken yards 
where bears were kept. Some of them were walk¬ 
ing about; others sitting down and catching in 
their forepaws the pieces of gingerbread that peo¬ 
ple were tossing to them. 

Poor little Barry! He was a plucky little dog, 
but he was only a puppy. He had wandered for¬ 
lornly through strange, gloomy streets, he had 
heard terrible noises coming down from the skies, 
and now he had come upon these awful monsters 
twenty times as big as he, who might fly right up 
over the rails just as the birds did, and devour 
him. There is nothing else in the world so lonely 
as a lost dog. Is it any wonder that he threw 
back his head and howled and howled? “I want 
my mother! I want Carl!” This was what he 
said, but no one understood. A lady patted him 
and tried to comfort him, but this was not what 
he wanted; he wanted to go home. 

At last a tall policeman came and took hold of 
his collar. He turned it around so he could see the 
lettering. Then he reverently made the sign of the 
cross, and said to the lady: 

“This dog belongs to the good Fathers far up 
on the Saint Bernard Pass. Does any one know 
who has the dogs this year?” he asked a group of 
children. 


BARRY 


251 

“Carl's father has some of them,” they replied. 
“May we take him back?” 

Barry had found that he was being cared for, 
and he had lain down flat on the pavement, 
stretched out to his full length, utterly tired out. 

“No,” said the policeman. “A pup gets tired 
as soon as a baby. He is too used up to walk. 
Pretty soon I will take him home in the police 
wagon.” 

So it was that Barry came home. A very happy 
boy threw his arms around the dog's neck; and 
as for Barry, he snuggled himself under Carl’s 
jacket, nestling closer and closer, drawing in his 
breath like a sob, and then making little plaintive 
sounds of pleasure. 

The next morning, when Carl was ready for 
school, Barry sat on the piazza and looked up 
into his face pleadingly. “No, Barry,” said Carl. 
“Dogs aren’t allowed to come to school.” And 
he went off, trying hard to forget the mournful 
little figure on the piazza. Half an hour later a 
delighted boy ran up the steps of his home. 
“Mother, mother!” he cried. “The teacher says 
that if Barry will be good, he may come every 
day and lie in the hall till it is time to come home. 
He says that on the Pass of Saint Bernard a dog 
like this one saved the life of his own brother, and 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


252 

that some day, when Barry is grown up, he may 
rescue some one of us from the cold and storm. 
Come, Barry!” — and they ran off happily to¬ 
gether. 

Barry grew rapidly into a dog of medium size, 
square-built and compact. His coat was white- 
and-tan, his hair short; but close to his skin it was 
so thick as to be almost like felt. His ears drooped, 
and his eyes were dark and deep-set. His whole 
bearing was gentle and affectionate, even playful, 
but yet with a certain quiet dignity as if he was 
waiting for something of importance to happen. 

When the winter snows began to fall, Barry 
plunged joyfully into the drifts, sniffing and 
scratching and pawing as if he was in search of 
something. The children made little caverns in 
the snow and hid in them so that he would come 
and dig them out. They put bits of their bread 
and cheese down deep in the drifts and covered 
them up; but Barry never failed to find them. 
The schoolmaster stood at the window watching 
their play. “ It’s in the blood,” he said to himself. 
“That dog would never be happy away from the 
highlands. It’s the call of his work that he is feel¬ 
ing; and he has a call to save lives just as the pas¬ 
tor has to save souls.” 

With the coming of spring, Barry grew restless. 


BARRY 253 

He smelled the air uneasily. His great brown 
eyes began to have a troubled and anxious look, 
like one weighed down with the thought of work 
not done and the fear of not being able to do it. 
“ He’s never been on a mountain,” said the school¬ 
master, “but he’s pining for the high pass and the 
storm wind and the struggle. You must let him 
go, boy,” he said to Carl. “No good will come 
from keeping either man or beast from the duty 
that’s calling him.” 

The Saint Bernard dogs were kept in Berne 
until they were nearly grown, because the intense 
cold of the Pass was too severe for them when 
young. Carl had known from the first that as soon 
as Barry was old enough he must go to the good 
Fathers at the Pass; but when one is only twelve, 
“old enough” is a long way off, and when Barry 
was sent for, Carl was heartbroken. 

“Will you surely write me every year and tell 
me if Barry is well?” he said, with eyes brimful of 
tears, to the young monk who had come for the 
dog. 

“But, Carl,” said the boy’s father, “you must 
not forget that the good monks have much to do 
and many lives to save.” 

“But Barry has a life, too,” the boy pleaded. 

“ I promise you,” the young monk said gravely. 


254 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


“And when I am grown up, will you let me 
come to the Hospice and help Barry to save peo¬ 
ple in the storm?” 

“If you still wish it when the time comes, I do 
not doubt that there will be a place for you,” said 
the monk, looking tenderly into the boy’s earnest 
face. 

“I’ll surely come, Barry,” whispered Carl with 
his arms around the dog’s neck. 

Barry licked his cheek, then followed the monk, 
stranger as he was. 

“ Barry knows he is going to his work,” said the 
schoolmaster. 

Suddenly the dog stood still, then turned back, 
put his paws on the boy’s shoulder, licked his 
cheek once more, and set off for the fierce struggle 
with the cold and the snow and the tempests of 
the upper mountains. 

But when the monk and his dogs began the 
climb, no one would have thought that they were 
going to a place of cold and storm. There was no 
shade on the path, and the sun was blazing hotly. 
Flowers were everywhere. The rocks were car¬ 
peted with heather, and in their clefts and among 
the boulders the yellow violets were growing. 
Pansies made wonderful splashes of purple gor¬ 
geousness against the brilliant green of the grass. 


BARRY 255 

In the shadows of the woods a few tardy blossoms 
of the lady’s-slipper stood with dignity and grace. 
Alpine roses with their fresh green leaves came 
out bravely into the sunshine. 

Up, up, they went. Here and there were cata¬ 
racts slipping over the precipices. Wisps of white 
clouds gathered around the peaks. The sunshine 
was no longer golden and burning, but chilly and 
pale. The deep ravines grew deeper and darker. 
The wind rose and began to roar through the fir 
trees and the pines. Now and then the dogs 
pricked up their ears at the sound of a distant 
avalanche. They looked startled and expectant. 
What were they coming to? Tired as they were, 
they sometimes dashed ahead of the monk, plung¬ 
ing into the snow that was still deep in the gullies, 
and floundering about in it, then running back to 
their leader and gazing inquiringly into his face, 
as if to question what it all meant. They were 
eager and restless, but not troubled. It was “in 
the blood,” as the schoolmaster had said, and 
although they obeyed when the monk called, 
“Come, children, and rest a bit,” they gazed 
wistfully at the path that stretched before them. 

They came to a deep and narrow valley known 
as “the Valley of Death” because so many had 
been lost in its winter snows. The path wound 


256 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

from side to side, crossing the roaring torrent of a 
river and recrossing it again and again. Deep 
chasms yawned between the rocks; precipices 
stretched up to the sky; the patches of snow grew 
larger and deeper, and the gullies overflowed with 
it. The excited dogs gathered around the young 
monk, and he talked to them gently and quietly. 

“It is all right, my children,” he said. “It is 
only a little farther before we come to home and 
supper. Listen! Do you hear that?” The dogs 
pricked up their ears, for up the height, not so 
very far away, they heard the friendly barking of 
dogs of their own breed. 

A turn in the pathway widened the view, and in 
the twilight the dogs could see a great building 
with little windows and massive walls of gray 
stone. This was the Hospice, where of all who 
asked for hospitality not one was refused. The 
tired dogs were fed, and with a kindly word and a 
pat from the monks they were sent to bed to rest 
for the new life that lay before them. 

For seven centuries monks had kept this Hos¬ 
pice open for all who came, whether wealthy peo¬ 
ple traveling for pleasure, or workmen coming 
from Italy into Switzerland to find work, or peas¬ 
ants who had taken this shortest and cheapest 
way of going from one country to another. These 


BARRY 


257 

put money into the little box in the chapel if they 
were able and chose, but no one was ever asked 
for a penny. Many thousand came every year. 
The convent bell rang at all hours of night and 
day. Even he who arrived at midnight always 
found a hot supper and a bed waiting for him, and 
in the morning there was breakfast and a “God 
bless you!” as he started to continue his journey. 

When the ten months of winter began, then 
came the terrible snowstorms, covering with 
treacherous bridges the chasms between the 
rocks, changing the places of the drifts, rooting 
up trees, hiding the familiar streams and every 
trace of the pathway. Travelers became ex¬ 
hausted ; they stopped to rest; the fatal mountain 
sleepiness overpowered them; and unless help 
came swiftly, that was the end. 

It was in such times as these that the monks 
went forth in anxious search. No one went with¬ 
out a dog, and the dog was always in the lead. He 
pushed on where he thought best, and the monks 
never questioned, but followed like little children 
whatever path he might choose. More than once 
the dogs refused to go by the usual path, and in 
each instance some good reason was found after¬ 
wards for their refusal. They knew much by in¬ 
stinct, but they were carefully trained, and this 


258 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

training went on with most dogs for two years or 
more before they could be sent out by themselves. 
They set out in pairs. A blanket was bound to the 
back of each, and a flask of wine tied around his 
neck. Their smell was so keen that they could 
find a man even under a deep covering of snow. 
Then they pawed until they reached him. They 
licked his hands and face and lay down beside 
him to make him warm. Sometimes they could 
arouse him so that partly by dragging him and 
partly by urging him onward, they could persuade 
him to push on to the Hospice. If not, they 
howled and barked till some one came to their aid. 

On the night of Barry’s arrival, the house was 
full of guests, and in the morning every one hur¬ 
ried out after breakfast to see the famous dogs. 
They were having a regular good time, howling 
and barking and rolling in the snow and playing 
tricks on one another. 

“These are our children, our braves, our lay 
brothers,” said the Father with a smile. “See 
what gentlemen they are when they are intro¬ 
duced! Jupiter!” he called, and a big dog came 
forward and shook hands with one of the guests. 
“ Mars! ” was the next name called. Mars was the 
baby, Jupiter’s grandson; and when Jupiter had 
marched away to shake hands, the little rascal of 


BARRY 


259 

a Mars had jumped into his grandfather’s warm 
place. It was very comfortable, but he obeyed, 
and came forward looking as mischievous as the 
rogue that he was. “Oliver!” and Oliver came 
forward, and shook hands in friendly fashion. 

Barry had been watching with his head cocked 
to one side and his eyes shining. He knew how to 
do that, and he did wish the Father would call his 
name. “ Barry! ” the Father called at last, with no 
idea that he would understand what was wanted; 
but Barry walked up to him with the utmost dig¬ 
nity and offered his paw. “Good boy!” cried the 
Father, and patted the dog’s head. This was one 
of the tricks that the children in Berne had 
taught him, and he was delighted to show what 
he could do. 

The days were full, but the kind young monk 
did not fail to write to Carl; and before many 
months had passed, he wrote: “Barry found his 
first traveler in the snow last night, and persuaded 
him to arouse himself and push on to the Hospice. 
This is the first time that a dog with so short a 
training has done such a thing.” “Barry knew 
how it felt to be lost,” said Carl to himself. 

Another time the monk wrote: “A group of 
peasants were overwhelmed by an avalanche. 
The grown people were killed, but Barry found 


26 o 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


one little girl still alive, though badly bruised. 
Somehow he made her understand that she must 
lie on his back and put her arms around his neck; 
and what a proud little lay brother he was when 
he brought her safely home! How he ever thought 
of getting her on his back, I do not know. He had 
not yet been taught that.” 

When Carl read this letter, he smiled. “We 
know, don’t we, Barry?” he said to himself. “ More 
than one of our little girl friends has had a ride on 
your back, and you learned just how to crouch so 
they could get on easily.” 

At length there came a letter which said: 
“Barry is our finest dog. He has saved in all the 
lives of forty persons. He is happy, but sometimes 
he goes to the edge of the cliff and stands gazing 
down the long and winding path. I believe that 
he is thinking of you. Will you not come and 
visit us?” The hand that wrote this trembled, 
and now there were no more letters, for the young 
monk had died. There were no long lives on the 
Pass of Saint Bernard. He who gave himself up 
to the work of saving lost travelers knew well that 
his days would be few. 

Now that Carl had no more news of the dog, 
he thought of him even oftener, and before long 
he and his friend Marco started to go over the 


BARRY 


261 


Pass. Marco had friends on the other side, and 
Carl had a deep longing to see Barry. It was the 
edge of the winter, but the storms had not yet been 
severe, and they hoped to get through without 
trouble. 

All went well up to the beginning of the Valley 
of Death. Here the snow began to fall heavily. 
The sky was thick and dull, and the wind was 
rising. It came in savage gusts, striking one pre¬ 
cipice, flinging itself back to another, whirling 
the young men about with furious blows and buf- 
fe tings. 

“This grows worse all the time,” said Carl. 
“Let us rest for five minutes and eat our lunch, 
and then push on with all our might.” 

“A struggle like this needs something better 
than bread and cheese,” said Marco. “I have 
brought a flask of the strongest brandy for just 
such a time.” 

“My grandfather knew the mountains as well 
as I know our own house,” said Carl, “and he 
always said that a mountain-climber must keep 
his head clear. Don’t drink it, Marco,” he pleaded 
earnestly. “Don’t you know the old saying, ‘He 
who drinks brandy at the peak, will never again 
drink wine in the valley’?” 

“I’ll wager that the man who wrote that never 


262 


THE GOOD DOG BOOK 


was at the peak,” retorted Marco lightly. In 
spite of all that Carl could say, Marco took a long, 
deep drink from his flask and pushed on forward. 
But the storm drove on more and more fiercely. 
“ I must sleep just a moment, then I can go on,” he 
said drowsily, and sank down beside a great drift. 

Carl pleaded. He shook the man and pulled 
him, and dragged him as far as he could. But he 
himself stumbled and fell, and before he could get 
upon his feet, a sudden whirlwind of snow had 
covered his friend. He felt about in the storm and 
darkness; but there was no trace of him to be 
found. Heavily he plodded on. Late in the night, 
there was a ring at the Hospice door, so faint and 
tremulous that the good Father who answered it 
almost believed that he had dreamed of the 
sound. The story was soon told. 

“ It may not be too late,” said the monk. “Our 
best dogs were sent the moment we heard that a 
man was out. They will find him, and he will be 
brought in.” 

“Has Barry gone?” asked Carl anxiously. “I 
have come all this way to see Barry.” 

“And you will see him,” said the monk sooth¬ 
ingly, as if to a child; “but now sleep, and you 
shall be called as soon as he comes.” 

In the early gray of the morning, Marco was 


BARRY 


263 

brought in, still half-dazed. Barry had found him, 
had pawed the stifling snow away and had joy¬ 
fully licked his hands and face until he began to 
awake. But his brain was stupid and dull; his 
eyes were dim and misty; wild fancies and terrors 
had seized upon him, and while Barry was bark¬ 
ing joyfully for help, his only thought was that 
a wild beast had attacked him. He fumbled 
with unsteady hand, pulled out his knife, and 
stabbed the loving friend who, with no thought of 
his own suffering, was with all his strength strug¬ 
gling to drag him to shelter. The brave dog’s 
blood reddened the snowflakes that swirled an¬ 
grily around them. Barry’s steps staggered more 
and more. At the gate he dropped and his eyes 
closed. The monks knelt around him and watched 
him tenderly. 

“Barry, Barry!” cried Carl in a voice that 
trembled with affection and grief. 

Barry moved his head slightly. His eyes 
opened. He looked slowly from one to another, all 
around the little group, last of all at Carl. For a 
moment he questioned. Then there came into his 
eyes the light of a great joy. He made a familiar 
sound; faint and distant it seemed, but yet clear 
and distinct. It was “Barry’s welcome” — and 
his farewell. 


264 THE GOOD DOG BOOK 

Barry died in 1816, after twelve years of un¬ 
selfish, faithful service. When the cemetery for 
dogs was opened in Paris, the place of honor was 
given to a monument in his memory. This shows 
the little girl on his back whom he rescued after 
the fall of the avalanche. She is holding fast to 
him, and Barry’s head is turned a little toward 
her as if he was telling her to trust him and not 
be afraid, for he would surely carry her safely 
home. 


THE END 






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